


Other People's Poetry

by oppisum



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Movie(s), Queer Themes, Virginity, Workaholic Graves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppisum/pseuds/oppisum
Summary: “A man like Grindelwald has no real love for anyone other than himself,” Graves says, pouring tea into each of the mugs. “He’s capable of caring for someone, but only for as long as they’re useful to him.”The words hit Credence like a physical blow. He knows their truth, but the memories of slow touches and gentle words still linger. This man is so much like the Mr. Graves he knew before-- still brusk, still self-assured to the point of arrogance, but with a vein of dry humor where only darkness lurked before. He still sets Credence’s heart pounding, and Credence wonders if he got what he deserved for his sins.
  Or, in which Credence goes looking for the man who betrayed him, but finds someone else altogether.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [他者之诗](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771056) by [Helice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helice/pseuds/Helice)
  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Other People's Poetry (deutsche Übersetzung)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268547) by [TheArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtist/pseuds/TheArtist)



> Thank you to the absolutely fantastic [Helice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Helice/pseuds/Helice) , who has not only undertaken the immense task of translating this story to Chinese, but is also acting as my beta. Additional correction thanks to the wonderful [vivisextion](http://vivisextion.tumblr.com/). Blame any remaining errors on my dyslexic ass.
> 
> Translation to Russian available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5004311) by [charlie-atlas](http://charlie-atlas.tumblr.com/e).

“How do we know the boy won’t go on another rampage?” calls a voice from somewhere to Credence’s right. He doesn’t look, can’t look; merely keeps his head down and eyes trained on the floor.

“He won’t,” Mr. Graves-- the real Mr. Graves-- says firmly.

“But how do we _know_? He’s done it twice before.”

“ _He_ ,” emphasizes Mr. Graves, “has done nothing. He was the victim of a parasitic magical force brought on by years of repression and abuse and provoked by a genocidal fanatic.”

A murmur goes round the room. The senate hearing consists of nearly a hundred wizards and witches -- more than Credence ever dreamed of existing. He can’t look at them for too long without feeling light-headed, like his Ma’s old prescriptions against being arrogant enough to stare into the face of God if he made it to heaven.

 _If_.

“He--” starts the man.

Mr. Graves cuts him off. “The same genocidal fanatic, you will note, who kept me captive for nearly a year and tried to kill one of my fellow aurors.”

“It was a very good impersonation of you, Percy,” comes an old, squeaking voice.

“You’re calling me self-important and a fantastic duelist?” Mr. Graves says, a smirk audible in his voice. “You flatter me, Charlie.”

The president speaks before the conversation veers further off topic. “Credence is no child. He is too old for a formal wizarding education.”

“So you would have him held captive, killed-- all for the sin of being too old for Ilvermorny?” he snaps, all seriousness once more. “That is not justice, Madam President. He must be taught to harness his powers.”

“And who will teach him, Graves? Who will take responsibility for an adult with no money, no family, and no magical skill?” she asks.

A hush falls over the room, and Credence squeezes his eyes shut. He’s wondered the same thing over and over again as he’d laid awake for the past three nights in a MACUSA cell. They hadn’t known where else to put him.

The silence lengthens. He wishes he had the power to make the floor swallow him up into nothingness.

“I will,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence’s head jerks up to stare in awe at the man whose appearance he knows so well. His face might be identical, but Credence knows that the imposter Percival Graves would have never gone to such trouble with nothing to gain.

“This boy saved my life,” he continues. “I’m only before you now because of Credence’s search for the man who introduced him to magic.”

“How do you mean?” asks a lightly accented voice from the other side of the room. Credence wonders if there was some memo the man missed; he rather got the impression that everyone in the room knew more about his life than he did. Maybe the man had been traveling, he thinks and nearly laughs at the ridiculousness of it. Not for the first time, he wonders how magic users travel. Not actually on brooms, surely.

Mr. Graves steps forward so he stands with his back to Credence. “For all that Grindelwald used and betrayed him, he was the first person to show Credence that magic wasn’t something to be ashamed of. When his obscurus form came under attack, his magic reached out for the familiar, the safe, but instead of finding the man he knew as Percival Graves, he found me-- shackled, bound, and silenced; kept alive only for the polyjuice potion.”

Whispers of curiosity go around the room. The squeaking man pipes up, “How did he free you? Neither of you had wands.”

Mr. Graves tilts his head. “He survived to nineteen with an obscurus inside him. A little wandless magic was not out of his reach, with a little guidance.”

The president sighs. “That was playing with fire. He could easily have killed you.”

“I would have died there anyhow,” he says coolly. “If you were all so incompetent as to not notice a wanted dark wizard in your midst, I doubt you would have found where he hid me before I wasted away.”

“You go too far, Mr. Graves,” booms the belligerent man from earlier.

“Silence,” the president says. “Considering recent events, perhaps someone should go too far. Our complacency has cost the wizarding community dearly.”

Credence’s hands ball into fists, nails digging into his palms until the skin breaks. He feels claustrophobic, confined. Sweat beads on his brow, and his breath comes in shallow bursts.

Mr. Graves glances at him. “On that note, perhaps we should wrap up. This is not an interrogation, Madam President.”

“Indeed it is not,” she agrees. “Though that will eventually be necessary, for now both you and the boy should rest. This senate is dismissed, scheduled to reconvene on the first of next month or when summoned. Remember, senators, we are still on high alert. Though your time is valuable, so too is our safety. Dismissed.”

The raised benches burst into a rumble of conversation. Credence looks around, unsure where to go or what to do. The room is overwhelming, a flood of colored robes and sensory overload. He’s just starting to wonder how much longer he can take it when a familiar hand falls on his shoulder.

“Come with me,” says Mr. Graves, so close that his breath ghosts over his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Credence can only nod wordlessly.

He trails behind Mr. Graves, fighting the pressing crowd that automatically parts for the older man. Mr. Graves turns, grasping him by his sleeve and pulling him in front.

“Stand up straight,” he says, not unkindly, as he steers Credence forward. “They’ll move if you look like someone they should move for.”

Credence swallows hard and tries to straighten his back. He suspects he doesn’t succeed in looking like ‘someone they should move for’, but it does at least make him taller than most of the crowd. He’s led into a corridor, nearly stumbling as he hurries to keep up with Mr. Graves’s longer strides, and sags with relief when they reach an elevator.

Mr. Graves looks at him with mild concern as they move downwards. “Are you doing okay?”

Credence shrugs. He really doesn’t know. He’s still not convinced he really isn’t dead and that this isn’t some bizarre form of purgatory. Maybe Ma was wrong. Maybe purgatory really does exist, is more than a lie perpetuated by the Catholics to make them feel better for sinning.

“No urge to turn into a murderous ball of magic?”

That almost makes Credence smile. He shakes his head.

Mr. Graves claps his hands together. “Excellent,” he says, just as the elevator doors open. He leads them down a series of offices and desks-- row after row of desks filled with robed and suited figures and covered in scurrying paper mice. Workers lean over to whisper to their neighbors as they pass, and again it strikes Credence how many of them there are.

He speeds up to fall into step beside the other man. “How many, um, magic users are there?”

“According to the last census, roughly a million in the US alone,” Mr. Graves says unthinkingly.

Credence’s steps falter, stop. One million. Once, he would have been hard pressed to believe there was one. One million people like him. One million people with magic in the United States alone, and how many more around the world.

“Credence?”

Credence shakes himself. “I’m fine,” he says. He’s ashamed to feel tears pooling in his eyes and hurriedly wipes at them with the back of his sleeve.

“Come on,” Mr. Graves says, voice low, understanding. He presses Credence forward with a hand between his bony shoulder blades, away from the prying eyes and hushed whispers.

Once they’re safely ensconced in a bookshelf-lined office, Mr. Graves all but sags into his desk chair. A fine sheen of sweat coats his brow, and for the first time since the night Credence found him, he looks exhausted. Credence wonders how he’s even keeping himself upright, less than a week after getting pulled from a literal hole in the ground.

Almost without his permission, Credence’s eyes track over him. Under the crisp lines of his suit, he’s thinner, more gaunt than the Mr. Graves he knew before. Credence wishes he couldn’t still see how attractive he is, wishes his eyes didn’t want to linger on the line of his jaw and the dark wash of his hair.

The older man catches him looking. “As long as he retained some of the original brew of polyjuice potion, Grindelwald had no need to keep me well fed, just alive,” he says, misinterpreting his staring.

Credence only nods and looks away, not knowing what to say to that. Instead, he asks, “Mr. Graves, did you really mean what you said back there?”

“All of it,” Mr. Graves says, “But to which part are you referring?”

“The-- the part about taking me in and-- and teaching me m-magic.”

Mr. Graves folds his hands on his desk and sighs. “I will not have them treat you as a criminal out of sheer laziness. You saved me, Credence, and even though it wasn’t me, I do feel some responsibility for Grindelwald's ill use of you. Yes, I meant it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” Credence says. “Thank you so much.”

“Have I mentioned how much I hate no-maj transit?” Mr. Graves sighs, changing the subject.

Credence blinks. “Sir?”

“They still have my wand impounded. Making it spit up every spell that bastard used for the past eleven months, I expect.”

”Why, um,” Credence starts. “What does that have to do with transit?

“A wand acts as a sort of focusing conductor for a wizard's magic,” Mr. Graves explains. “We can’t do much without a wand, and that includes apparition.”

“Apparition. Is that the--” Credence swirls his hand to indicate the way he’d watched the other Mr. Graves swirl away into nothingness.

This Mr. Graves smiles tiredly, almost fond, and it’s an expression Credence has never seen on that face. “Yes. This--” He mimics Credence’s gesture. “Is called apparition, and it’s incredibly dangerous without a wand. I’d likely leave my head behind if I so much as tried. So, the subway it is.”

Credence looks down. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have money for the subway. I can walk, if you tell me where to go.”

Mr. Graves says nothing, instead begins opening and closing his desk drawers. “I swear, that damn man rearranged everything. How they never noticed-- ah,” He pulls out a small pouch and tosses it across the desk.

Credence catches it on instinct, and the older man nods for him to open it. Inside, dozens of coins clink together. He looks up. “Sir, I can’t.”

“Take them. The department has them falling out of our ears. They’re of no use in our world.”

He nods slowly and pockets the pouch. “Thank you, sir.”

He waves away the thanks. “You can stop with the ‘sir’ and ‘mister’. You don’t work for me, and I'm not forty quite yet. Call me Graves; no one calls me by my first name unless they want to annoy me.”

Credence is spared from coming up with a response by a knock on the door.

“Enter,” Graves calls, straightening until all signs of his previous fatigue are gone.

Credence brightens when the woman who’d tried to stop his mother-- Tina, he thinks she’s called-- steps into the office.

“How’s he doing?” she asks.

“Ask him; he can speak,” Graves says curtly. “And I’m fine, thanks for the concern.”

Tina levels him a speaking look but turns to Credence. “How are you?”

“Okay,” Credence says, voice dry and cracking. He’s not entirely sure how true or false the statement is.

“Overwhelmed,”Graves puts in for him. “I think I sent him into shock by telling him how large the American wizarding community is.”

She closes her eyes briefly, but only says, “How’d the senate hearing go?”

“Redundant. Asinine.”

Tina makes an exasperated noise. “I’m a fool for having ever thought your time in Europe changed you.”

Graves smirks tiredly. “Yes, you are, but not as much of one as the rest of them. You at least got yourself kicked off the team early on. They had eleven months to notice. ‘Major Investigations,’ I ask you. They couldn’t even bother noticing the wanted criminal in their midst.”

“In their defense, sir, he did a very convincing impression of you.”

“So I’ve been informed.” He purses his lips in what would be a pout on anyone less dignified. “I hear you found a suitor while I was away.”

Tina rolls her eyes. “I don’t think ‘suitor’ is quite the right word, Mr. Graves. And you make it sound like you were away on vacation.”

Graves raises his eyebrows. “Bound and gagged in a pit? Still a vacation compared to the stupidity of this place. Christ, do me a favor, Goldstein, and don’t get yourself kicked off the investigative team again before I retire or kick it.”

“You’ll never retire.” She smiles. ”Speaking of, do you know yet when you’re returning to work?”

“They’ve put me on leave for the next three months-- too malnourished and traumatized, they says.” He snorts in a way that says exactly what he thinks about that. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Until then, I’d prefer not to simply lie in bed and convalesce.”

“So you’re going to teach Credence basic magic instead?” She asks, almost skeptically. Credence wonders at that, but he’s willing to venture a guess that it has something to do with Graves’s perceived level of patience.

“I see word travels fast as ever around here,” Graves says dryly. An idea appears to strike him. “Goldstein, imaginative, insightful Goldstein.”

She gives him an indulgently unimpressed look. ”Sir?”

“How about you side-along Credence and me to my apartment?”

“Hmm,” she says, putting a thoughtful finger to her lips. “I don’t think that’s in my job description.”

“Ms. Goldstein,” he starts seriously. “You can’t hold Grindelwald's actions against me.”

“Oh, never, sir,” she says, faux innocent. “I’m holding your actions against you. I haven’t forgotten the ever-tapping tap shoes incident.”

“I’m begging you, don’t make me take the subway. Think about the boy. He’s dead on his feet.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “But what’s the magic word?”

“ _Promotion,_ ” he grits out.

That earns him a laugh. “Not the one I was thinking of, but it’ll do.”


	2. Chapter 2

Credence stumbles as his feet hit the ground, struggling to draw breath against the crushing pressure. He felt winded, like he’s fallen flat on his back. He doesn’t know where he is, barely even knows what’s happening, only knows that magic is apparently more _painful_ than it looks.

A large hand grips his arm, steadying him.

“Easy now,” Graves says. “Breath through it, that’s it.”

Credence catches his breath enough to speak. “Wha-what was that?”

“Apparition,” Tina says, smoothing down the sleeve of her blouse where Credence had clutched her arm for dear life. “It’s high level magic that allows wizards to travel instantaneously.”

“Many wizards prefer floo or brooms, for obvious reasons,” Graves adds.

Credence boggles. “You really do fly on broomsticks?”

Tina laughs like he’s said something funny. “I’ll be going now. There’s a lot of paperwork for me to catch up on. Take care, Credence.”

Credence smiles awkwardly and nods, and then there’s a loud crack and nothing where Tina had stood. He turns, taking in his surroundings for the first time. He’s in an apartment, not overly large, but nicer than any he’s been in before-- hardwood floors covered in ornate rugs; a plush sofa and chair; a polished dining table.

Even so, there’s an odd air to the place, like it’s sat frozen in ice for some indeterminate length of time. There’s the faintest smell of dust and something that might be ash, bitterer than any Credence has ever smelt, cloying. There’s something about the smell, something he can’t quite put his finger on, that makes the hair on his arms stand on end.

“At least the bastard didn’t see fit to redecorate while he made himself at home.” Graves looks around the apartment, a moue of disapproval his lips. “As soon as I get my wand back, I’m scourgifying this whole place from top to bottom. I can still feel his disgusting presence lingering.”

He walks to the kitchen, leaving Credence to trail tentatively in his wake. He shrugs out of his coat, draping it over the back of a chair. It’s a careless gesture, once Credence wouldn’t have expected of a man as fastidiously controlled as Mr. Graves. He opens each cabinet in quick succession, expression darkening. “Typical. Not a single coffee bean left. I hope he was at least considerate enough to leave some tea.”

Credence can’t tell if he’s supposed to answer, or if Graves is just the sort of man to talk to himself when frustrated.

After another minute of digging, Graves holds up a tin, victorious. He reaches for his pocket only to stop short. “Get a couple mugs from over there, will you?” he asks instead, gesturing towards a glass-fronted cabinet stacked with dishes.

Credence does as asked. As he pulls bone white mugs from the shelf, he wonders if it’s as strange for the wizard to be cut off from magic as _having_ magic is to Credence. He sets he mugs on the counter and watches as Graves looks inside the empty kettle expectantly.

There’s a pause in which he opens and closes the lid before appearing to remember that water comes from the sink. He sets the filled kettle on the stove and stares at it, as if willing it spontaneously to boil.

Then Credence realizes, he might be.

Credence takes a tentative step forward. “Do you have any matches?”

“Matches?” Graves says, as if puzzling over the word. “Ah, matches, yes.”

He fishes in a drawer until he finds a pack Credence suspects is older than he is. Graves holds it loosely in one hand, unsure what to do.

Credence reaches a shaking hand towards the pack. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Graves says, passing them over.

The match takes three strikes to light. Credence reaches up, turning on the gas as he holds the match to the burner. Once alight, he turns the flame higher and puts the kettle on.

“It’s been nearly two decades since I’ve had to make tea without magic,” Graves says, almost apologetically.

“Perhaps,” Credence says, licking his dry lips. “Perhaps you should order out for dinner.”

That earns him a surprised huff of laughter, and the sound is so unfamiliar that Credence startles. This man is so much like the Mr. Graves he knew before-- still brusk, still self-assured to the point of arrogance, but with a vein of dry humor underneath where only darkness lurked before.

He wonders how that is, how the man called Grindelwald missed that when he so clearly studied Graves’s every mannerism.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Graves says as he measures out the tea.

”Sorry,” Credence automatically answers.

“Don’t be. But feel free to speak up if it’s something I can clarify.”

Credence looks around the apartment again, all hardwood and and warm colors, more cozy than he ever imagined of a stern man like Graves. “It’s just… what those people said is true. He was so much like you-- but not,” he adds as Graves’s jaw clenches in irritation.

“It’s like he kept all the worst parts but forgot the good ones,” he continues before he can think it through properly.

An expression of dark humor crosses the older man’s face. “I somehow doubt you know anything about my ‘worst parts’, but I see your point.”

The kettle whistle, and Graves cuts off the gas before reaching for it.

Credence manages to grab his wrist just before his bare palm touches the metal. “Careful!” he says, holding out a dish towel.

“Right. Thank you,” Graves says, taking it and pouring the water into their mugs. He doesn’t look up as he continues, “A man like Gellert Grindelwald has no real love for anyone other than himself. He’s capable of caring for someone, but only for as long as they’re useful to him.”

The words hit Credence like a physical blow to the chest. He knows their truth, but the memories of slow touches and gentle words still linger. This man isn’t the man he knew before, but the low cadence of his words still sets Credence’s heart pounding and the graceful movement of his hands still speed the breath in his lungs.

Perhaps he got what he deserved for his sins.

He swallows past the tightness in his throat. “He pretended to care, to be my friend, to want a better life for me.”

“Not a good enough job pretending, judging from the look on your face.”

Credence shakes his head. “It’s for the best. If he had done better, I would have listened to him, in the end.”

“His lust for power was his downfall,” Graves agrees. He presses a mug of steaming tea into Credence’s hands. “Drink. As the English say, tea will make everything better. Honey? I’m afraid the genocidal maniac living in my apartment didn’t see fit to buy more milk before he got arrested.”

Credence blinks. “I’ve never had it in tea.” His Ma, when she allowed tea, when he was sick or had been caught in the rain, had always forbade the luxury of milk and honey.

Graves pulls a jar and tea spoon from the cabinets. “Then it’s time you try it.”

Credence watches him stir a small amount of golden honey into the mug he holds. The warmth of the tea leaches the cold from his palms, and the first sip warms him from the inside. It’s sweeter than almost anything he’s accustomed to eating, but not overpoweringly so. “Thank you,” he says.

Graves ignores the thanks, instead gesturing at a kitchen table. “Sit.”

Credence obeys, and Graves takes the chair opposite him. The tired lines reappear around his eyes as he leans back. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, not quite, but Credence still holds his mug to his lips to cover his lack of words.

“Do you remember your birth parents?” Graves asks, apropos of nothing.

Credence shakes his head. “Not-- not much. Only my mother, and only flashes.”

A soft lullaby in a foreign language, a wash of dark curls, a bright flash of purple light.

Graves nods as though this is what he expected. “I expect your adoptive mother burned your Ilvermorny letter. They likely didn’t persist, given who she was.”

Credence sucks in a sharp breath. For his life to have been so knocked off course by such a simple action seems farcical, like God has a dark sense of humor.

“Did you always know you were a wizard?” he asks to distract himself.

Graves folds his hands on the table. “I come from a very old wizarding family, one of the earliest to enter the United States. I was raised around magic, and it was fully expected that I’d receive my Ilvermorny letter in due time.”

“So, you knew, just like that? Because you came from magic, you’d have it?”

“Well, squibs are not unheard of when a family’s blood is too pure, but that has never been an issue in the Graves line,” he says, and Credence doesn’t ask what it means for blood to be pure. Whatever it is, he doubts he has it. “I set a pair of ugly curtains on fire when I was six, and from that day on, it was settled.”

Credence furrows his brow. “So all wizards are descended from other wizards?”

“No,” Graves says. “While uncommon, children with magic can be born to no-majs. Most wizarding children are plagued by spontaneous eruptions of magic from their youngest age, so no-maj-born wizards are never particularly hard to locate.”

“I never have.” Credence looks down into the dregs of his tea. “Had strange things happen around me, that is. Not until recently.”

“What you experienced is a perversion of a child’s magic, a malformed parasite that sought to protect its host,” Graves says.

Credence flinches at the words _perversion_. “I’m not a child, Mr. Graves,” he says, desperate to hide his discomfort.

Graves must notice, though, because he reaches out, squeezing Credence’s thin wrist with a calloused hand. “No, so you are not. It’s a testament to your magic’s strength that it kept itself hidden for so many years, protecting you from that woman’s wrath and the toll of the force living inside you.”

Credence can only nod, not completely reassured.

“And I told you,” The other man squeezes his wrist lightly. “I’m just Graves to you.”

Outside the living room windows, dusk has overtaken the city. In the time they’ve been talking, the apartment has descended into a hazy twilight without lamps lit. Graves’s face is blanketed by shadows, his handsome features even more sharply defined because of them. His touch is warm on Credence’s skin, and Credence’s treacherous heart beats a rabbit-fast thump.

This is not the man he knew before, Credence reminds himself. This is not the man who used him, who used his perversion to manipulate him and make him trust a snake’s lies.

Before Credence has time to say anything he’ll regret, Graves pulls his hand away, pushing back his chair with a scrape of wood on wood. “It’s getting late. I should show you to your room.”

‘Your room’ is such an unfamiliar phrase that Credence can only stand, unsure what to say. He follows in silence through one of three doors directly off the kitchen.

“Here you are,” Graves says. “The bed is a bit small, but it’s comfortable.”

Words fail Credence. Even in the half-light, he can see that the room is nearly twice the size of the bare space he shared with Patience. The bed is far larger than he’s used to, with a comforter more luxuriant than any he’s ever been allowed to touch. Two overflowing bookshelves stand on the far side of the bed, and a trunk at its foot. God above, there’s even a window.

Graves turns to the fireplace in one corner of the room, looking at it speculatively. With a purposeful wave of his hand, flames spark to life in the grate.

He looks back at Credence, taking in his awed expression. “I’m not completely helpless without a wand,” he says with a sly smile.

“Thank you, Sir,” Credence says. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

Graves cups his ear. “‘Thank you’, what?”

“I--” Credence stammers, confused, before comprehension dawns. “Thank you, G-Graves.”

That earns him a warm expression that heats him more than the flames ever could.

“That’s better,” Graves says. “The bathroom is the door to your left, my room the door to the right. Go take a shower, and I’ll find us dinner.”

“Yes, Si--” He breaks off at Graves’s stern look. “Yes. Alright.”

Graves makes to leave the room, but pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “And Credence? Do use the hot water. That’s what it’s there for.”

Without waiting for a reply, he shuts the door behind him.

Credence takes another awed look around the room. It’s decorated in warm tones, much like the rest of the house. Deep browns and rich burgundies surround him like a warm embrace. He wants to sit on the bed, see if it’s as delightfully soft as it looks, but he refuses to dirty it with his sweat and dirt stained clothes.

There’s a faint smell of dust, the same hint of disuse that rings through the rest of the apartment, but the bitter ash smell is gone, much to Credence’s relief. He secretly hopes it’s not a smell common to wizarding homes, but it feels rude to ask.

He runs his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelves, their titles stamped in words he can hardly make out. He can read enough to not be considered illiterate, but that’s it. He pulls one down at random, hoping it’s allowed.

“A-ni-ma-gus Es-sen-ti-als,” he sounds out to himself from the gold embossed cover. He knows the second word, but not the first. He opens the book and drops it onto the bed when something inside moves.

He stares at it in shock for several second. Then, cautiously, he flips the cover back open with one finger. His imagination hadn’t been playing tricks on him. On the title page is a drawing of a woman morphing into a cat, moving in an endless loop.

He turns the delicate pages one by one, able to read few of the headings but fascinated by the etchings that dart across them. With a great effort, he pries his eyes away from the hypnotizing volume and reshelve it.

He makes his way to the bathroom Graves described and finds a fire already crackling invitingly in the grate. He fiddles with the brass knobs of the clawfoot tub until he figures out how to work the shower, then strips out of his clothes.

Despite Graves’s order, he can’t bring himself to use more than lukewarm water, but even that feels like a magic of its own. The grime of the past several days of torment wash down the drain, and it feels like a blessing.

The soap left out smells reminiscent of a scent that clings to Graves’s skin, and Credence indulges in pressing it to his nose for a long moment before his guilt gets the better of him. He washes quickly, trying to ignore the inviting scent.

When he pulls the shower curtain aside, a set of clean clothes and a towel have appeared. He never even heard Graves enter. The towel is fluffier than he knew possible and pure white. He has a moment’s hesitation, afraid he’ll stain it with his filth, but that’s impossible, he knows. His body is now clean, even if his soul still needs a good scrub.

He wonders, suddenly, if Graves can clean the stains on his soul with a flick of his wand like everything else.

No, perhaps it's impossible.

He bears death on his name now, a magic twisted from its natural state, and an attraction deviating from nature. That seems too much for even a wizard to clean.

He emerges from the bathroom several minutes later, damp hair plastered to his forehead. The night clothes are the right length, but too baggy in the shoulders and waist-- Graves’s clothes, he realizes with some apprehension. He shouldn’t like that thought.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

Graves looks up from the kitchen counter. “Ah, good. They fit well enough for now. I can take them up when I get my wand back. Or, better yet, buy you new ones.”

Credence’s eyes go wide at that. “That’s not necessary, really. You’re doing too much for me already,” he says, shaking his head.

Graves doesn’t answer, merely pulls plates down from the cabinet, handing one to Credence. He takes it, not understanding why it’s being handed to him. Graves smirks, raising his eyebrows slightly.

He opens a small carton sitting on the table, and before their eyes blooms a meal the likes of which Credence has rarely seen, much less partaken in-- an entire roast chicken, colorful vegetables he can barely identify, and some kind of baked tart.

He looks up at Graves in amazement, not wanting to ask permission, but not wanting to presume, either.

“No need to just stare. Take food,” Graves says, “Careful, though; gorging yourself after prolonged malnutrition can cause severe stomach pain, or so the mediwizards informed me.”

Credence hesitates, but does as he’s told. “What was that?” he asks as he spoons vegetables onto his plate. Then adds, “Thank you.”

“It’s Magda’s Floo Delivery-- ‘home cooking for the witch on the move’. Or wizard, in our case,” Graves says, cutting the chicken into manageable portions and passing one to Credence. “We both need a real meal after all of this.”

Taking his seat, Credence asks, “What’s floo?”

“Wizards can travel from fireplace to fireplace, if they’re connected to the network.” He gestures towards the living room fireplace as he takes a bite. “That’s why the main fireplace is usually bigger in wizarding households than in standard American ones.”

A long-forgotten memory sparks in Credence-- a fireplace larger than most, his mother singing as green flames dance.

He nods and reigns in his questions. He doesn’t want to pester the exhausted man. Besides, he’s not sure his brain can absorb much more-- feels as though the information will run out of his ears like water if he so much as tries.

The rest of the meal passes in silence with Credence trying not to eat like a wild animal. He watches how Graves holds his utensils, trying to copy the motions, but feeling like a stray dog let at the kitchen table.

After his plate is cleared, Credence stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. Ma would have scolded him for his sloth, but Graves simply nods as if in agreement and says, “We should both get some real rest. I’ll be sleeping on the sofa, so if you get up during the night, don’t be surprised.”

The freedom to get up and wander in the night is altogether new, but rather than addressing that, Credence says, “You don’t have to sleep on the couch. You can sleep in the guest room; I’ll be alright.”

Graves shakes his head. “I’d feel better sleeping where I can see the door and the floo grate until I have my wand back. Besides,” he adds, “The smell in the master bedroom is godawful.”

Credence’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Can you smell that burnt smell, the bitter one that sets your teeth on edge and makes you want to check over your shoulder?”

“Yes,” he says, chilled by the accuracy of the description. It lingers in his nose, never quite going away, as though his senses can’t adjust to it.

Graves runs a tired hand over his stubbled jaw. “That scent is a mark of dark magic of the most accursed kind. It’s mostly in my room, and right now, I don’t even want to consider what he did in there. Death has slept there since I last did.”

A shiver runs down Credence’s spine. He finally knows what the smell reminds him of, what it likely _is_. The food in his stomach churns threateningly.

“That’s the smell of burnt flesh,” he says weakly, and it’s not a question.

The look Graves gives him is tired and understanding. “Don’t think about it too hard.”

Credence wonders wildly how he’s supposed to manage that, his every instinct screaming for him to leave, even if it means sleeping on the street.

Graves takes in his distraught expression and sighs. “I wouldn’t have told you, but you deserve to know. Grindelwald used you more than any of us, and keeping his crimes from you is no mercy.”

“How can you just--” Credence bites his lip, trying to calm his near-hysteria. “How can you act so normal when you had to have known since the moment we first set foot here.”

“My boy, this is my job. Daily I deal with the darkest the magical world has to offer.” Graves tilts his head back to stare sightlessly at the ceiling. “You can’t make a career of hunting dark wizards without getting desensitized to their travesties.”

With that, Graves stands, and Credence knows the conversation is over.

He doesn't leave. His desire for a warm bed in a magical world overcomes his fear. He puts his plate in the sink, leaving it reluctantly unwashed at Graves’s insistence.

As he climbs into bed, the older man’s words echo through his head. His limbs feel numb with exhaustion, but the shadows at the edge of his mind lengthen until sleep is an impossibility. Even the unearthly comfort of the bed can’t lull him.

He watches the flames in the hearth flicker, kept alive without being fed. He wonders if magic could sustain people like that, if that’s what Grindelwald did to this Graves.

He tosses off the covers and goes to stand in front of the fire, the wood floor pleasantly warm under his bare feet.

The warm glow isn’t enough to chase away the darkness in his head.

The shadows coalesce into a man who looks like Graves but isn't, a man who taught him what human contact could be, a man who murdered and pushed him to. The man he thought he knew never existed, was merely a ghost of a kind man worn by an amoral monster.

Revulsion curls in the pit of Credence’s stomach.

He let that monster’s hands touch his face, let it kiss his lips. He let its silver tongue convince him his perversions were nothing to be ashamed of. He bets, if the charade had lasted any longer, he would have let it seduce him.

Nausea threatens to overtake him.

He makes himself think of the fireplace of his memory with its green flames, remembers the soft words sung by his mother-- his _mother,_ whose memory he’d almost lost entirely between beatings and condemning words.

He murmurs her song to himself as he stares into the flame, the shape of the words foreign and their meaning lost on him. His voice cracks on the tune, but he feels lighter for having sung it.


	3. Chapter 3

Credence has no memory of falling asleep, but he wakes on the floor next to the still-crackling fire. Sun streams in through the window, and he know it has to be at least 8:30.

He bolts up, afraid he’s overslept. For what, he doesn’t know, but he nearly jogs into the kitchen all the same. He doesn’t remember when he last slept this late.

The entire apartment sits still. He quiets his steps, thinking Graves might still be asleep, but when he rounds the corner into the living room, the couch rests empty. He glances back, and yes, the bathroom is unoccupied.

Before he has more time to worry more, a sheet of paper in the center of the table catches his eye, a bagel left out beside it. He picks it up, squinting at the spidery scrawl dancing across the page. Even without the mess of handwriting, Credence can read next to none of it.

He picks out his name at the top, what he thinks is Graves’s at the end. He can make out the words ‘gone’ and ’wand’ and ‘back’ and ‘eat’. It’s enough that he thinks he has the gist of the message, but he can’t be sure.

He takes the bagel, at least fairly sure that it's meant for him, and eats it with one hand hovering to catch any stray crumbs. That _smell_ still lingers, making the bagel stick in this throat. He doesn’t want to dirty a glass or presume, so he drinks his fill of water from cupped hands at the sink.

After, he stands in the center of the living room, unsure what to do in a wizard’s empty apartment. The place rings eerily quiet for a Manhattan Thursday-- not trapped in amber but rather suspended in ice. Curious, he steps towards the line of windows behind the couch.

What he sees makes him clutch at the windowsill. He’s at least thirteen stories up, and even if it’s not much by Manhattan standards, he’s rarely been above the fifth floor of a building. Breathing past the height, he makes himself look for details on the street below. The height of the building and the twist of the street below makes him think he’s somewhere on Broadway, probably below Midtown.

The price of an apartment like this has to cost more per month than-- well, he doesn’t even have a standard of comparison. That thought makes Credence sit on the couch before he starts hyperventilating. He wonders when his life took such an abrupt left turn.

No, he knows. He simply hates admitting it. It started the day he trusted the man in the nice coat who told him he was special, the man who kissed his lips and said he was normal, the man who betrayed and lied to him.

That man might be the reason he knows of magic, but Mr. Graves is the one who’s given him the opportunity to learn it. Graves, who’s God-knows-where right now, having left him with a note he can’t even read properly. He wonders how disgusted his benefactor would be if he knew that.

Credence stands, not sure what he’s going to do, but knowing he can’t just sit here thinking.

People have called him dumb plenty of times, but in reality he's not stupid; thinking simply never leads to pleasant places for him.

Two more bookshelves line the wall near the fireplace. He pulls down book after book, trying to commit their order to memory so he can replace them correctly. He spreads them over the coffee table and sits cross-legged on the floor.

The pages absorb him, immersing him as text he can't read dance across the page like lines of ants on Benzedrine. He flips through page after page all for the occasional moving image that depict the world of his lost birthright.

He tries not to think about Graves and wonder if he’s okay. He grips the note tight, crumpling the paper at the edges. He can’t even ask a stranger what it says, not if it talks about magic.

There’s a loud pop, and Credence looks up in time to see Graves swirl into existence in the kitchen.

Credence stands, making his legs walk instead of run. “You’re back,” he says.

“Wand and all. I refused to go another night without it, and I didn’t care who I had to yell at to get it,” Graves says, producing it from his coat pocket. He flicks it absently, making last night’s dishes swirl into the air and begin washing themselves in the sink. He furrows his brow at Credence, who for once is more fixated on the man before him than the show of magic. “Did you miss my note?”

“I-- no,” Credence says. He proffers the slightly squished piece of paper.

One of Graves’s eyebrows quirk. “I suppose you missed the part about their being a change of clothes in the bathroom, then?”

Heat rises Credence’s face. “Oh, I suppose I did. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

Graves’s sharp eyes trace over his face. “You can’t read, can you.”

It’s not a question, not really, but Credence stutters, “Yes, I-- well, no, not really, but y-yes, a little. I mean--”

“Breathe,” Graves interrupts.

Credence’s shoulders cave. “I’m so sorry. I can’t--”

“Quit apologizing,” Graves says, not unkindly. His brow furrows, and he nods towards the coffee table. “If you can’t read, what were you doing there?”

The lingering heat morphs into a full blush, and Credence knows he’s far too pale for it to go unnoticed. “I was, um--” He coughs. “I was looking at the p-pictures.”

“Apparently we’re going to need a bit more than magic lessons,” Graves says dryly.

“Sir, I’m so--” Credence starts, but warm palm over his mouth halts his words. His eyes widen, and he blinks at Graves in confusion.

“Credence, you have done nothing for which you should be sorry. I have worked with many brave, intelligent men who could hardly pen their own initials. There is no shame in it, my boy. You need only be taught.”

Credence wants to believe, wants this to be one less shame he has to carry, but his Ma’s words linger-- _stupid boy, can’t even read; no use teaching you, you’re too dumb to ever learn._

He shakes off the remembered vitriol. “Could I-- I mean,” he starts. “Do you think it’s possible for me to learn?”

“Of course. It won’t be easy at your age, but neither will learning magic.” Graves surveys apartment. “Why don’t you change and go take a walk for a little bit while I clean up. I’m sure aurors have already swept the place, but it’s probably best if you’re elsewhere while I deal with whatever’s left in that bedroom.”

Credence blinks, not entirely sure what auror is. “Okay, Just let me--” He makes to replace the books, but Graves’s voice halts him.

“Leave them.”

“But--”

“Leave. Them,” Graves insists with a small smile.

Credence does as he’s told, instead making his way to the bathroom. The clothes he finds there are simple but of nice materials. He runs his fingers over the midnight blue button up, its fabric far softer than he’s accustomed to. The pants, he’s relieved to find, fit him perfectly, no belt needed.

He notes that there’s not even one on offer.

His reflection catches his eye as he makes to open the door. The image he cuts is less pathetic as the one that usually greets him. His hair is still uneven, and he looks out of place in the clothes, shoulders and elbows standing out too much to be quite healthy. He looks away before he can find more to dislike.

“I set the wards to recognize you,” Graves says as Credence reenters the kitchen. “And I told the doorman to expect you for the next few months. Take this.”

Credence finds a key being pressed into his palm, Graves’s hand warm against his own for one endless moment before he pulls away, leaving Credence oddly bereft.

Credence opens his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, to prolong the time before he has to leave. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, getting so attached so quickly to a man who took him in as charity, a man whose face has already ripped his heart out once before.

He closes his mouth without a word and heads for the door.

“One more thing,” Graves says, and Credence turns, trying to keep the relief from his expression.

Graves shrugs off his coat and holds it open.

Credence steps back. “Sir, I couldn’t possibly.”

A sigh escapes the older man. “Are you always going to call me ‘sir’ when you get nervous? Take it. That wind will cut right through you, and I won’t have you catching your death out there.”

Reluctantly, Credence turns and slips his arms into the proffered coat. The fabric is still warm from Graves’s body, and that’s enough to steal Credence’s breath. It feels like he’s being wrapped in a full-body embrace, the warmth and the scent making him almost dizzy.

Hands run down his shoulders, smoothing out the creases. A finger lingers on a scar that curves around the junction of his shoulder and neck. He’d gotten it for sneaking food to a girl with a witch’s mark.

Graves squeezes his arms then steps around him. He pulls the scarf from the coat’s lapels and knots it around Credence’s neck, nodding in approval. Credence can’t imagine that he makes much of a sight to approve of, though. He heads for the door before he has a chance to say or do anything regrettable.

Outside, the interminable Manhattan winter has begun to lose its battle with the oncoming spring. Still, Graves was right. The breeze sweeps viciously between the buildings, even if there is a hint of warmth to it. He walks until he finds a street sign, uses it to get his bearings.

The apartment isn’t terribly far from Union Square, he realizes. He’s been there before for church meetings and such, but it’s further north than he usually goes.  He starts that direction, not sure where else to go. He can feel the brackish Hudson water on the wind, but the piers seem like a good place to be recognized by other orphans.

He sniffs surreptitiously at the coat’s collar as he walks. Graves’s scent clings to it, subtle cologne and old wood and something that’s just _Graves,_ sharp and strong _._ It’s almost the same smell that clung to Grindelwald those times he’d pressed into Credence’s space. Almost. Something is different now.

No, he realizes; something is lacking. The cloying scent of dark magic had clung to Grindelwald’s skin, layer on top of Graves’s unique scent. Darkness had marked Grindelwald’s very presence from the first moment Credence met him, but he’d been too blinded by magic to notice.

Graves’s scent is more appealing; still dark, but not in the way of dark magic. It’s dark in that distinctly masculine way, the way that wakes terrible things in Credence.

He considers the idea of living with this man-- _off_ of him-- for months. His Ma’s beatings felt like penance for the space he took up under her roof. He has no way to earn his keep with Graves, nothing to make him more than a pitiable charity case, not when Graves can do everything he needs with magic. Credence can’t even earn his keep by doing the housekeeping.

More pressingly, how can he live for so long in such close proximity to Graves without giving away the nature of his perverse attractions?

He should feel repulsion when staring into the very eyes that betrayed him, but he can’t. He was attracted to the man who wasn’t Graves, and now that those same eyes carry a hint compassion and humor, the attraction is threatening to blossom into something altogether more unnatural.

He shakes off the thoughts. Hopefully that’s something he’ll never have to deal with.

Credence looks around and wonders how long “a little while” is to Graves. His feet have carried him past Union Square into the low rows of buildings billowing with steam. Factories, he knows. Factories where women and kids far younger than him sew clothes with only the open windows for ventilation.

They’re the sort of place he worked while in the orphanage, the sort of place he’d likely still work if Ma hadn’t come along. He doubts he can make Graves understand that the beatings were nothing compared to that life, the only life he would’ve had if he’d left the church.

He turns back the direction he came, unable to look at their facades. It’s easy enough to find his way back; he made sure to follow 14th Street so he couldn’t get lost. As he walks, he hums to himself, and it takes a moment for him to recognize his mother’s lullaby again.

By the time he makes it back, the sun is starting to set and a chill has set into the air.

When he steps inside, it's like stepping into an entirely different apartment, full of life and light. A pile clothes are washing themselves of their own accord, and papers appear to be sorting themselves in the makeshift office space on the far side of the living room.

All of the lamps are lit tonight, and a fire crackles merrily in the grate. Best of all, the scent of dust and bitter ash is gone, leaving only a faint scent of pine in its wake. It’s as though the apartment has reawoken from the same interminable winter as the city below, even if Credence knows that’s nonsense.

Graves doesn’t look up from the sofa, wand held loosely in one hand, a book in the other. “I was beginning to worry you took a walk to New Jersey.”

“I got lost in thought,” Credence says, instinctively bracing for a blow he knows won’t come.

“Better than getting lost period.” Graves flips a page and asks, “Dinner?”

Credence shakes his head even as his stomach growls. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Graves’s eyebrows raise over the top of his book. “Let me rephrase that-- dinner. I’m making it. Go wash up.”

Credence makes his way to the bathroom without further protest. When he reemerges, Graves has his wand held aloft as ingredients combine in mid air to form a full chicken pot pie. With a flick, dishes spread themselves across the table. A twirl, and a wine bottle dances out of a cabinet, uncorks itself, and pours a measure into two glasses. A jab, and the taper in the center of the table lights itself.

Graves flourishes his hand at the table in an ‘after you’ gesture.

Credence takes a seat. He doesn't trust his thin, unsteady hands, so he waits for Graves to cut the pie before taking a small serving.

“Alright?” Graves asks.

Credence nods as he swallows his mouthful. “It’s delicious, thank you.”

Graves takes a bite and frowns. “Too much salt. I’m out of practice.”

He takes a sip of his wine, and something about his hand on the delicate stem, shirt cuff rolled up to reveal the skin of his wrist, make desire stir in Credence’s gut.

Credence eyes his own glass dubiously. “I’ve never--”

“No, I suppose you haven’t, have you? What with your mother and that ridiculous no-maj Prohibition.” Graves sighs longsufferingly, as though Credence has been deprived of one of life’s great pleasure. “You don’t have to drink it, but you may as well try it.”

Credence takes the glass, not managing to make the motion look nearly as graceful as Graves had. The burgundy liquid tastes like sin when it passes his lips, dark and rich and not entirely pleasant.

But wine, he reasons, is the least of the reasons he needs to worry about damnation.

He likes it, he decides. He’s not sure he likes the taste, but he likes the rebellion of it, the breaking of everything his old life held dear.

He manages to set the glass back on the table without clinking it and tilts his head. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Graves?” he asks, pronouncing the name slowly.

“You did it on purpose that time.” Graves smiles, pointing a playfully accusing finger.

“And if I did?”  The words roll off his tongue without effort, and Credence wonders if it’s because of the wine or the warm smile of the man across from him.

“You continue to surprise me, Credence.” Graves shakes his head. “To answer your question, no, I don’t believe in God. At least not the God of your mother and her ilk.”

Credence’s breath stutters at the admission. “Do you believe in anything?” he asks.

“We all believe in something,” Graves answers. He swirls his wine, watching the swish and fall of it. “I believe in the importance of law and government, but I also believe that sometimes the right thing isn’t within their bounds. I believe morality is grey and that the truth isn’t always the right answer. I believe there’s a higher power out there somewhere, but I also believe it doesn’t give a flying fuck what we do.”

The curse sounds almost elegant falling from Graves’s lips.

Graves looks up, meeting Credence’s eyes. “What I don’t believe in is a god of vengeful wrath or a god of hellfire and damnation. I don’t believe in moral absolutes or religious strictures against actions that harm none.”

Credence looks down at his empty plate. He has nothing to say to that, no compulsion to preach in the name of his Ma’s God. If that God really does reign, He turned His back on Credence long before he’d done anything to deserve it.

Graves points with his fork at the half-eaten pot pie in the center of the table. “Take more food. You don’t have to live like an ascetic with me.”

“It’s not right for me to keep taking from you; you owe me nothing for Grindelwald’s actions.”

Graves runs a tired hand over his face. “Would you accept what I offer if I told you I like giving it?”

That gives Credence pause. “How do you mean?”

“I’m a single man in a high paying job with no children and next to no remaining family. At the end of the day, a man can only eat one meal at a time, and I rather like having someone to share that meal with. At least, apparently,” Graves adds wryly, “When that someone is you.”

Credence knows he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he simply wants him to take the food and quit demurring, but the words warm something deep inside him that’s long gone cold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the absolutely fantastic [Helice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Helice/pseuds/Helice), who has not only undertaken the immense task of translating this story to Chinese, but is also acting as my beta.

Graves knocks on his bedroom door somewhere around eight the next morning. “Up. We have errands to run,” he says leaning into the room.

Credence rushed out of bed and into the bathroom to don yesterday’s clothes, cleaned with a flick of Graves’s wand. He’s in the kitchen ready to leave in less than four minutes.

Graves looks up from the newspaper spread across the table, raising his eyebrows as he takes a bite of toast. “I didn’t mean you had to rush. Sit. Eat.”

Credence doesn’t protest the second plate of butter and toast. A photograph on the paper moves, and that’s something Credence is still not used to. Wordlessly, Graves passes him a section that’s laid aside, apparently finished.

Credence peruses it with rapt attention. Headlines he can’t read cover the page, accompanied by picture after picture. He fastidiously studies each moving photograph. He runs his finger along the headlines above them, trying to parse their meanings.

“ _No-Maj Automobiles: How Do They Work_?” Graves reads out in as Credence traces a piece of text above the image of a car. Graves points at another headline and says, “ _British Wizengamot Lifts Restriction On Corumpus Jynx_.”

“What about this one?” Credence asks, indicating the words above a small editorial squished into one corner.

“ _Is the American Statute of Secrecy In Need of Reform?_ ” Graves says, lips pursing slightly. “That writer is doubtless on a watchlist now.”

Credence furrows his brow, and Graves sighs. “It’s talk like that that typically marks Grindelwald's followers,” he says.

Credence frowns at the page “What’s the article about?”

Gaves turns the paper so they can both see it, leaning halfway over the table. His index finger follows the text as he begins to read aloud.

 _“In the week following the near exposure of our community, many witches and Wizards are asking themselves-- Is our way the right one?_ _Namely, the American law preventing any no-maj knowledge of magic, no matter the circumstances. For decades this rule has torn apart families and ripped children from the arms of mothers. First signed in 1689, the International Statute of Secrecy gives limited power to each wizarding government to keep itself hidden as it sees fit.”_

Grave’s low words rises and falls in a hypnotic cadence, his voice captivating Credence just as much as the words he speaks.

_“Our near sister across the ocean England has no such restrictions. No-Majs who produce wizarding offspring are permitted to know about their child’s magical affairs. Magic users are permitted to intermarry with no-majs-- though the practice is highly controversial-- and inform their spouses of their abilities after filing a spousal knowledge application with the Ministry of Magic._

_“Many have suggested that wizarding Britain is steadily trying to accustom no-majs to the idea of magic, laying the groundwork for an eventual-- some would argue inevitable-- ultimate exposure. If this month’s events have taught us anything, it’s how easily shattered out fragile peace is.”_

Graves clears his throat and adds, “The rest just rehashes what happened two weeks ago in vague terms.”

Guilt and shame threaten to swallow Credence. People are dead because of him-- Ma is dead because of him. He can’t mourn her death, not honestly, but the guilt of it still weighs on him. His carelessness cost lives, and nearly exposed the wizarding world to a tide of fear and hate.

So many questions spin through his head, but what he asks is, “Do people know that I did it?”

Graves carefully folds the paper and sets it aside. “The short answer is no, they do not. They simply know an obscurus went on a rampage.”

“And the long answer?” Credence presses, not sure he wants to hear it.

“The Statute of Secrecy is one of our most sacred laws. Without it, we would likely live in the world of your mother’s dreams-- a world of witch burnings and persecution, where no-majs fight what they don’t understand,” Graves explains. “It’s common knowledge that Grindelwald masterminded the obscurus attacks. Because of the initial reports that the obscurus was killed, most people are more concerned with him than any tool he may have used.”

Graves hesitates before gentling his voice. “The common American witch or wizard doesn’t fully understand the nature of an obscurus-- the fact that they’re humans. There have been very few since the burning times. It is unlikely that anyone will connect you to the incident.”

Credence looks up, meeting Graves’s gaze. His eyes are liquid brown, so full of emotion that Credence has to dart his eyes back down to the table.

“We should get going.” Graves stands from the table and shrugs on his greatcoat, saying, “Come on.”

Credence trails him to the living room fireplace. Graves takes a handful of powder from a bowl on the mantel and tosses it into the flames. Emerald green flames flare to life in the grate, and it’s so much like his memory of his mother that for a moment Credence thinks he’s still asleep.

“Those are floo flames. They’re perfectly safe to touch,” Graves explains, misreading his confusion. “You’re going to step into them and say the name of the place you want to go, in this case Pendragon Square.”

“Pen-pendragon square,” Credence says to himself.

“Say it like you mean it-- no stuttering,” Graves adds. “Let me hear you.”

“Pendragon Square.”

“Again.”

“Pendragon Square.” Credence says, louder this time.

“Excellent. I’ll be right behind you,” Graves says. He shuffles Credence forward with a hand to the small of his back. That more than the tickling green flames sends shivers up his spine.

“Pendragon Square,” Credence says one last time, and the world dissolves around him an a swirl. He shuts his eyes tight against the spinning sensation threatening to make him sick.

Next thing he knows, he’s staggering out of another grate. The fireplace is faced with white subway tiles and accented with silver, one in a line of five. Graves steps out behind him, one hand idly brushing ash from his coat.

“We’ll need to get you a decent set of robes. You don’t see too many wizarding robes in Manhattan, but they’re still in vogue in most of the Western world.” Graves says thoughtfully, as if he hasn’t somehow just traveled _by fireplace_. “I got an owl this morning. We’ve been summoned to MACUSA day after tomorrow, and it would probably make a better impression if you were in traditional robes.”

Credence is too concerned by the prospect of returning to MACUSA to ask what on earth getting an owl entails. “Wha-- what for?” he asks.

Graves shrugs. “Nothing too troublesome. Just some final questions now that we’ve both had some rest and they’ve had a chance to question Grindelwald.”

Credence’s brow furrows at the sidewalk.

“Look up,” Graves instructs, amusement lacing his tone.

Credence does. For all that the blistering Manhattan breeze and overcast light tell him they’re outside, far above his head he see the hazy outline of what appears to be hundreds of feet walking on frosted glass. He stares, open-mouthed and awe-struck.

“That’s Herald Square above us,” Graves explains. “And this is Pendragon Square.”

He waves a hand to indicate a riot of storefronts Credence hadn’t looked too closely at before now. A cauldron bubbles with frothing purple liquid in the window of the nearest. Across the street, a broom is displayed in a gilt display case. It’s as if magic has enchanted a normal New York street into a dreamland.

Credence thinks with some twisted glee that Ma would’ve had a heart attack if she’d known this was lurking below one of their usual meeting sites.

“This way,” Graves says, catching his attention. He enters a door between two flashy store displays of lace-cuffed robes. Credence sincerely hopes those aren’t what wizard’s robes entail.

He hardly has time to take in the shop before he’s being shuffled to stand on a stool by a bat-eared creature. It starts poking and prodding him with a tape measure, muttering measurements to itself. Graves waves away a second one of them, hovering around him like a persistent fly.

“Five feet, eleven and a half inches,” the one attending to Credence says. “Sir is too skinny, he is.”

A witch in midnight blue robes pokes the creature with a bolt of fabric. “Rude, Mippy. Bad house elf.”

“Mippy’s apologies, sir, but Mippy still insists you eat more,” she mutters darkly.

That earns a laugh from Graves, who turns to the witch. “He needs three sets of robes,” he says. “And twice as many shirts and trousers. Black for the robes, and whatever colors you think will suit him for the shirts.”

“Very good, very good,” the witch says. “Anything else?”

“Quite a lot. He needs a full wardrobe, all of the basics.”

The witch raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “That’ll run you around two-hundred dragots.”

“That’s not an issue,” Graves insists.

Credence isn’t sure how much a dragot is, but the witch’s reaction makes him think it must be quite a lot. He opens his mouth to protest, but a sharp poke from Mippy’s tape measure stops him.

“If the handsome wizard wants to buy you clothes, let the handsome wizard buy you clothes,” the house elf insists in a whisper loud enough to carry across the entire shop.

Heat rises in Credence’s cheeks as Graves coughs into his hand to hide a laugh.

“Can I interest you in a set of dress robes?” the witch asks loudly, indicating the frilly monstrosities displayed in the window. “They’re the latest fashion in London.”

A pained expression crossed Graves’s face. “No ma’am, I think we’re quite alright.”

“Very well, then. Your order should be done in a day. If you’ll just write down your floo address for me, I’ll send Mippy around with them tomorrow.”

Graves writes something down before ushering Credence back outside. The cool breeze feel refreshing after the stifling heat of the tailor's shop.

“Thank you,” Credence says earnestly.

Graves doesn’t look at him. “We still have another stop.”

Credence grabs his coat sleeve, making Graves look at him. “I mean it, Graves. Thank you so much.”

An awkward expression passes over Grave’s face, so out of place compared to his usual assured air. “You’re welcome. I have the money, so there's really no point in not.”

“Still, thank you.”

“That's enough of that. Don’t mention it. _Really_ ,” Graves insists, looking away. He leads them to another shop, this one elegant but nondescript.

“Ah, Percival!” a willowy man behind the counter calls as they enter, voice aged but enthusiastic. “Lovely to see you. My, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Is this your son?”

Graves winces, and Credence blushes at the assumption. Graves has to be twenty years older than him, but he’s never given much thought to their age difference before that moment.

“No, Mr. Jonker, he’s not. This is Credence,” Graves says, urging him towards the counter with a hand to his back. “He’s in need of a wand.”

“Ah, a replacement?” Mr. Jonker asks, not at all bothered by his mistake. “What was your original? I don’t recall selling a wand to you before.”

“I’m afraid there are rather extenuating circumstances,” Graves says. “Credence has never had a wand.”

“Never had a wand, you say. At his age? My, my. That is, as you say, rather extenuating.” The elderly man turns to a low shelf filled to the brim with boxes, then turns back to them. “Not a squib, though?”

“No, merely a late bloomer.”

Mr. Jonker raises his fluffy eyebrows. “Late indeed.”

He produces a series of boxes, the first of which he opens to reveal a wand shorter than the one Credence has seen Graves use. Mr. Jonker passes it over the counter, and Credence takes it, awed and reluctant. He holds it, unsure what to do when Mr. Jonker makes a ‘go on’ motion. Graves takes him by the shoulders, turning him to face an empty wall, and mimes flicking.

Credence flicks the wand.

Nothing happens.

Forty-five minutes and at least as many wands later, Mr. Jonker wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. “Not a squib, you say? Some can have periodic outbursts of power, you know.”

“He’s not a squib,” Graves says emphatically, a hint of ill-temper behind the words.

Mr. Jonker holds his hands up. “Fine, fine.”

When he disappears to the back to retrieve the next series of wands, Graves cups Credence’s face in his hands, making him look up from the floor. “You’re not, Credence.”

“But what if I am?” Credence whispers miserably.

“Then you still have enough magic to be considered part of our world,” Graves says simply. “But you’re not. You got me out of the godforsaken place, remember? Sometimes it just takes time to find the right wand. Breathe, relax, and remember, there’s no need to hide here.”

Credence looks up into his brown eyes and nods, for once believing the words.

A throat clears to their left, and Mr. Jonker sighs. “You insist he isn't a squib. It could be that his magic simply isn’t compatible with the wampus cat hair cores I use. That’s not unheard of, but it’s only happened twice in all of my years.”

“So you’re telling me that he’ll have to go to London or Prague if he wants a wand?” Graves asks, nonplussed.

“Possibly, possibly,” Mr. Jonker says. Grave’s expression turns thunderous, and the older man raises a hand to silence him. “I see the temperament matches the wand as much as ever. Ebony. Always the ebony wands. You never were a shy one, Percival, not even when I met you twenty-eight years ago.”

“About finding Credence a wand, Mr. Jonker,” Graves grits out.

“Well, it just so happens that I have a select few on hand from both Bouška and Ollivander. I ordered them to study, but I suppose we can try them out.”

“What if those don’t work?” Credence asks.

“Well then, we go through every other wand in my shop, and if that doesn't do the trick, we stick you on a boat to Europe,” Mr. Jonker says, eyebrows raised and voice lilting.

Credence chokes on his next indrawn breath, and Mr. Jonker thumps him bracingly on the back.

God above, _Europe._ He’s barely considered leaving the city before, much less the continent. The idea doesn’t sound at all appealing, at least not when it’s a product of his magical ineptitude.

Graves puts a hand on his shoulder. “Bring them out; we’ll try them.”

“You should know,” Mr. Jonker starts hesitantly, “that the reason I’m studying these wands in particular is because of their paradoxical nature. Both Ollivander and Bouška make wands whose very components battle each other’s nature. Wands like these rarely sell, and I’ve never quite seen their purpose-- as a store owner out to keep doors open, that is. As a wand maker, I understand that there are a few-- very few, I should say-- who are more compatible with such wands. Thus it’s highly unlikely that Credence will have a connection with any of them. ”

Graves nods once, grip tightening on Credence. “We’ll try them, just the same, before we go booking him a ticket to England.”

A minute later, Mr. Jonker returns from the storeroom carrying six boxes. He takes the lid off of the first labeled “Bouška Hůlky,” and Credence is fairly certain that his trouble reading isn’t the reason he can’t understand the writing. He carefully takes the wand from the proffered box and turns to face the blank brick wall.

He waves the wand, feeling just as silly and even less hopeful than every other time he’s done this.

A loud crack echoes through the room, and a split appears in the wall.

He looks to Graves to see a grin blooming on his face.

Mr. Jonker nods his head to one side and says, “Well, that’s an improvement, at least. Ash wood, like a good dozen you tried before, so the issue must be the wampus cat hair. Interesting.” He produces an old fashioned quill and jots down a note on a scrap of paper.

The next wand causes a pool of water to rise around them, which Graves works furiously to banish as Mr. Jonker climbs onto the counter and continues taking notes.

The third has no response at all save a noise like a raspberry. Mr. Jonker still writes down a note.

The fourth sets fire to Mr. Jonker quill, which doesn’t perturb his furious note taking. Credence can’t tell if Graves wants to punch the old wand maker or laugh.

As soon as Credence’s fingers wrap around the fifth, however, a jet of gold sparks shoot into the air and explodes into a rain of silver stars. Something feels _right,_ like Credence has found a missing piece of himself. The sensation steals his breath and makes his world stand still for a moment.

Mr. Jonker claps his hands together. “Merlin’s great white beard, we found it!”

Graves leans towards Credence. “I told you you’d find it,” he whispers, almost directly into his ear. A shiver runs down Credence’s spine that has nothing to do with magic.

“Twelve-and-a-half inches; apple wood with a dragon heartstring core,” Mr. Jonker recites as he neatly re-boxes and bags the wand. “I can’t even care that it’s one of Ollivander's. Tell me, my boy, would you be amenable to stopping by some other time so I can see how your magic interacts with my newer designs? I can’t have my wands not working for all wizards.”

“Mr. Jonker, I believe Credence has had enough wand waving to last--”

“Alright,” Credence agrees, cutting Graves off. “I’d-- I’d like that.”

The idea that his magic could do something useful, something good, makes him want to do whatever he can to help the eccentric old man.

“Splendid,” Mr. Jonker says, passing the bag over the desk.

Graves gives him a curious look, but doesn’t say anything as they reemerge into the wind and cold. They make their way down the main street, Credence all but clutching the bag to his chest. He swears he can feel its condense glowing white-hot, calling to him. The wand is proof that he’s meant to be in this fantastical world. For the first time in his life, he feels like he belongs.

Graves glances at him. A barely perceptible smile tugs at his lips as he says, “Perhaps it’s a good thing we saved the wand for last, though I’ll admit I was curious.”

Credence’s stomach sinks. “About if I had enough magic?”

Graves sighs. “Of that I had no doubt. No, I was curious what kind of wand would choose you. A wand says a lot about its bearer, and yours has interesting things to say indeed.”

“You mean what Mr. Jonker said about the wand being para-paradozical.”

“Paradoxical,” Graves corrects. “It means it’s a contradiction. In this case, an apple wood wand with a dragon heartstring core.”

“How is that a contradiction?” Credence asks.

“Dragon core wands are rarely used in the US. They’re well suited for the dark arts-- but that is the wizard’s choice to make, not the wand's. Dragon cores produce the strongest wands that only choose owners with vast stores of raw power. In all likelihood, that’s why the wampus cat hair cores weren’t working for you; you needed something able to control the sheer volume of energy coursing through your body.”

His wand _would_ be one suited for darkness, Credence thinks darkly.

As if hearing is thoughts, Graves continues, “On the other hand, applewood is considered the most, for lack of a better word, wholesome wand wood. It doesn’t take well to dark magic-- they've actually been known to splinter with the use of unforgivables.”

Credence shakes his head, his breath constricting in his chest. “That-- that can’t be right. I-- I’ve already--” He can’t say it, can’t put the dark actions into words, so he says, “People are dead because of me.”

Graves stops walking. “That wasn’t you. That wasn’t even your magic acting out your secret desires, if that’s what you’re thinking. That was a dark parasite lashing out at any who threatened its host. Remember that, Credence. You are not to blame.”

“Then who is?” Credence asks desperately.

“Nature. Ilvermorny. MACUSA. Take your pick. There’s plenty of blame to go around, but none of it is yours to bear.”

Credence’s eyes track every movement of Grave’s face, looking for any sign that the words are a lie to alleviate his guilt. There is none; so far as he can tell, Graves truly believes what he’s saying.

It’s as though a weight lifts from Credence’s shoulders. This man who he’s growing to admire so much doesn’t believe him a murderer.

Graves taps the bag in Credence’s hand. “This wand chose you for a reason. It’s the wand of a powerful wizard with no natural proclivity to the dark arts. Even after everything that’s happened, it still picked you, Credence.”

Graves’s words feel like a holy pardon, cleansing him of his past sins and opening the doors of a new future.

Credence moves forward, unsure what he’s doing until his forehead meets Graves’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, only knows that the press of Graves’s body seems natural, reassuring, stabilizing.

Graves freezes, surprised, before his arms come up to encircle Credence.

Credence bathes in the warmth of another person, the newness of it. His arms hang loose at his side until he tentatively wraps them around Graves’s waist, fingers clutching at his layers. He’s strong and solid under his suit, even if his time in captivity has made him slimmer than the Graves he knew before.

Hugs are something Credence never knew firsthand until his entrance into this strange new world. Occasionally after one of Ma’s bad nights, he would hold Modesty in his arms and rock her until she fell asleep or the sun rose. Her small fists balled in his shirt were the only physicality he knew.

Credence presses his nose to the skin of Graves’s neck, stubble scraping his cheek as he breathes in his scent _._ He knows how undignified he must seem, clinging to Graves like a child, but he can’t bring himself to turn down affection so readily offered.

Graves squeezes him tighter. “Shh shh shh. It’s alright. You’re alright. I have you,” he soothes.

And Credence realizes abruptly that there are tears on his cheeks, dampness pressed into Graves’s skin. Humiliation washes over him. He’s in the middle of a busy street crying into the arms of another man.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” he manages. He wipes a hand over his face and tries to pull away.

“None of that. Hold on,” Graves says, and then that crushing pressure is all around Credence again, pressing him impossibly closer to the older man until they’re pressed in a solid line from neck to hip. The sudden full-body contact is too much-- makes him feel too much he shouldn’t.

When the pressure recedes, Credence tries to stumble away, but Graves catches him, his grip the only thing keeping Credence upright.

The tears are still coming, but for an entirely different reason, now. His attraction twists his stomach, painful and wrong. It’s like a magnet pulling him to something he can never have. It feels like a betrayal of trust, having such twisted desires for the man who’s been nothing but generous to him.

Credence feels like he’s breaking, like all of his sins are exacting their toll at long last.

“Okay, down we go,” Graves says, lowering him onto something.

The living room couch, Credence realizes. He didn’t even recognize the apartment through his panic.

Graves walks away, and Credence doesn’t watch him go. He presses his palms to his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the tears. He focuses on evening his breathing, trying to find calm that’s shrouded him since he met the real Graves-- not that first dreadful night he pulled him from his dark, unforgiving prison, but the next time-- the time he knew it wasn’t a dream.

He’d been sleeping in a MACUSA cell, no one quite sure what to do with the obscurus-who-wasn’t. Tina visited him at least once per day, bringing her sister’s cooking along. The senate was debating what to do, she had told him. His attention came and went; people whose names he didn’t bother trying to remember came to ask him question after question-- most of which he couldn’t answer.

His memories of the past week were spotty at best. He mostly remembered the press of Mr. Graves’s hands to his face and his lips to his mouth and the full-body agony that always came before the world went black.

Then, on the fourth day, the shouting of a painfully familiar voice made him back into the corner of his small cell.

“--the fuck do you mean, ‘he’s in the holding cells’?! He’s barely more than a child. He’s been used by a monster for Merlin only knows how long, and the first you show him of our world is through the bars of a cell? It’s a miracle he hasn’t turned into a cloud of demonic dust again!”

The voice gets louder and louder until Mr. Graves rounded the corner, Tina and a guard fast on his heels. He’s the same as always, coat and scarf billowing around his austere form.

“No,” Credence has said, pressing himself deeper into the shadows. “No, no. Not you.”

Mr. Graves froze, and Tina rushed forward before he could get any more worked up. “Credence, it’s alright. Remember what I told you, that the man you knew as Mr. Graves wasn’t the real one? This is the real Mr. Graves.”

Credence’s brow furrowed. A memory broke through his panic: him, rescuing a man who was so like his Graves, only not at all-- so defeated, so sickly, so desperate. He could hardly believe this was that man. The wonders of magic, he supposed.

This Mr. Graves slowly stepped forward, hands raised. “Credence, right?” he asked. “I’m Percival Graves. We met several nights ago, but we have yet to be properly introduced. It’s a pleasure to finally meet my savior.”

Credence nodded slowly. When he looked closer, he could see the slight differences. This man was thinner under his layers, more drawn. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and a thin scar creeps up the side of his neck into his hairline. Most noticeable, though, were his eyes; haunted and tired and frustrated but with a kindness Credence had never seen in their brown depths.

Credence straightened and took a careful step forward. “You don’t have his eyes,” he pronounced.

This Graves glared at the guard next to him. “Let him out.”

The man jumps. “But the president--”

“Do I look like I care what the president said? _Let him out_ , or I’ll do it myself.”

The guard’s face pinched, but he pointed a short wand at the lock until it clicked. The door swung open, and Tina hurried inside before Credence had time to react. Her arms went around his neck, and he found himself wrapped in a brief hug that knocked the breath out of him. Mr. Graves hovered at in the door, hands in his pockets and a pleased expression on his face.

Something cool nudges Credence’s fingers, and he looks up to find Graves pressing a glass of water to his hand.

“Drink,” Graves orders. He’s shed his coat and suit jacket, and his hair is mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. He lowers himself to the couch beside Credence. “I wish you would have told me earlier how much those deaths weighed on your conscience. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Credence manages, voice thick even though the tears have stopped. He clears his throat. “Really, I’m fine. I think-- I think everything’s finally catching up with me, is all.”

“It’s okay to be overwhelmed. Anyone would be in your position.”

“You’re not. You’ve fallen back into your life like you were never gone,” Credence says softly. “He held you captive for nearly a year, probably tortured you. You don’t really talk about it except for when you make jokes, but I can tell. Things happened that you’re not saying.”

There’s silence. Graves slowly unbuttons his waistcoat, then waves his wand to light the steadily darkening apartment.

“I’m sorry. I overstepped,” Credence says.

“No, you didn’t.”

More silence follows that pronouncement until Graves shakes his head like a dog coming up from water.

“I’ve been tortured with Cruciatus before, and in all likelihood I will be again before the end of my career,” he says slowly. “I wouldn’t be even partially functional if I wasn’t really fucking good at compartmentalization.”

Credence leans so their shoulders press together. He doesn’t know how else to offer comfort, doubts anything he could say would help.

Minutes pass before he says slowly, “It’s funny. You swear sometimes. He never did.”

An ironic smirk twists Graves’s lips. “He probably thought himself above such base things as swearing.”

“And you don’t?” Credence asks, genuinely curious.

Graves turns slightly to look at him. “It’s cathartic. You should try it sometime,” he says dryly.

A blush rises in Credence’s cheeks, but at least it’s better than more tears. “I-- I don’t think I can.”

Graves laughs, and there’s something warm in it, as though they hadn’t been discussing his familiarity with torture only minutes earlier. “Sure you can. Everyone can, given a good enough reason. My philosophy is, if it will make you feel better, why wait for a fucking reason?”

An embarrassing squawk escapes Credence. His Ma would have skinned him alive for the obscenity. More than that, the meaning behind the word makes him squirm. It’s not something to talk about, to drag into the daylight-- especially for someone like him.

“Are all of my fucks making you uncomfortable?” Graves asks, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“No,” Credence lies. The word sounds seductive, dirty with Graves’s polished accent wrapped around it.

"Well then, _the fucking fuckers fucked up by fucking around too fucking much_ ," Graves rattles off, voice slow and dripping sarcasm.

“Okay, you’ve made your point,” Credence says, only pride keeping him from pressing his palms to his ears.

“Fucking around with fucks was always a particular talent of--”

Credence moves without thinking. He leans up to press his hand to Graves’s mouth.

Graves laughs, turning his head to break Credence’s grip. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

Credence feels the rumble of his rusty laughter through his body and suddenly realizes his position. He’s kneeling on the couch, chest half pressed to Graves’s as he fights to cover his mouth. He scrambles gracelessly to sit back down, heat pooling in his gut.

“I apologize for the teasing,” Graves says, turning on the radio with a twirl of his wand. “It’s just nice to see some color in your cheeks for a change.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway done, y'all. Halfway done.

“Remember, swish and flick,” Graves says. “ _Wingardium leviosa._ ”

He points his wand at one of two spoons laid out on the kitchen table, and it gently rises into the air. Credence watches with some unease. He’d never given much thought to how much memorization went into magic, nor the use of incantations. Graves rarely speaks aloud when he performs magic, and Credence hadn’t realized until this morning what a mark of skill that is.

“ _Wingardium leviosa,”_ Credence repeats, mimicking the movement and pointing his wand at the spoon.

Instead of levitating, the spoon ties itself into a neat bow.

Graves waves his wand, and it straightens back out. “ _Wingardium_ on the swish, _leviosa_ on the flick. Try again.”

Credence runs a finger over the polished wood and mother of pearl inlay of his wand, silently pleading for it to help him. Though abrupt as ever, Graves is a patient teacher. Still, Credence feels like he’s wasting the older man’s time, that there must be more important things he could be doing.

“ _Wingardium leviosa,”_ he says again. The spoon wobbles a couple of inches into the air, then falls back to the table with a clatter.

“That’s progress,” Graves says with a smile.

Credence shakes his head. “This isn’t worth your time.”

A look of genuine confusion passes over Graves’s face. “Excuse me?”

“It’s-- you’ve a very talented wizard, and here you are struggling to teach me things your world’s twelve-year-olds can do.” Credence waves a hand at the spoons. “I’m wasting your time.”

“First off, they’re your world’s twelve-year-olds now, too. Secondly,” Graves says, advancing on Credence. “Anything I deem worth my time isn’t a waste of it. That includes you, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Credence says softly.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Graves,” he says more firmly. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, raise your wand hand.” Graves moves to stand behind him, gripping Credence’s raised wrist.

Credence’s breath stutters in his chest, and he tries to focus on the spoon. “What--?”

“On the count of three, say it with me,” Graves says, resting his free hand on Credence’s shoulder. “One. Two. Three. _Wingardium leviosa._ ”

“ _Wingardium leviosa,_ ” Credence choruses, letting Graves help move his wrist in the right motion. This time, the spoon lifts gracefully into the air, moving higher and higher as Credence points at it.

Graves steps back, holding his hands up so Credence can see for sure that he’s really the one behind the spell. Joy blooms in his chest, and he lets out a peal of euphoric laughter.

“Fantastic job,” Graves says, and the praise makes something deep in Credence purr. “Now, as much as I hate to dampen the joy of success, we must make ready for our visit to MACUSA. The robes should be in your wardrobe along with the rest of your clothes.”

Fear takes the place of joy, but Credence tamps it down. “Alright,” he agrees.

In the guest room-- he still can’t bring himself to think of it as _his_ room-- he opens the wardrobe. Yesterday, the squeaking house elf from the shop had appeared, multiple clothing bags in tow. Credence hadn’t been able to look too closely at the fine fabrics as they were hung, too overwhelmed by the expense and generosity of them.

Now, he looks in some confusion at the assortment. Apparently, ‘all of the basics’ covers a wider array of clothes than he’s ever considered owning. He runs his fingers over plaid fabric before pulling the article down. It was a kilt. He really has no idea what occasion could arise that would warrant one; he’s not even sure enough about his heritage to know if that’s why it’s here.

He takes a set of deep black robes and lays them on the bed. Blue trim subtly highlights the edges, barely even noticeable. It seems made of acres of thick fabric, and he fiddles with the sleeve, considering the best line of approach.

He decides to try pulling it over his head, the way he’d helped Modesty don her Sunday dresses. Halfway through, he loses all sense of direction, not even sure which way is up on the garment. Claustrophobia threatens to make him hyperventilate until finally he manages to find air once more. He looks down at himself.

That… is probably not how wizard’s robes are supposed to be worn.

There’s a knock at the door, and without waiting for a reply, Graves leans his head in. He blinks.

“Having some trouble?” he asks, thinly veiled amusement lacing his tone as he steps into the room.

“I’m-- not quite sure how this goes on,” Credence admits.

“Well, for starters, you have it backwards.” Smiling, Graves grips the hem of the fabric and pulls it back over his head. He shakes the robes lightly, realigning the fabric before saying, “Secondly, there are clasps in the front.”

Credence stands there feeling foolish as Graves undoes the clasps he hadn’t seen and easily slips the robes over his shoulders before redoing them.

“There. All done,” Graves says, stepping back.

Reluctantly, Credence turns to the full length mirror inside the wardrobe door. The sight that greets him steals his breath. His hair has grown out enough that Ma’s awful haircut isn’t as noticeable, and two weeks of real meals have filled out his face at long last. No longer does the image of a pitiable and pitiful child stare back at him.

The mirror shows him an almost ethereal young man garbed in the robes of another world. His lips stand out, full and red, and for the first time his skin looks porcelain rather than sallow.

Graves comes to stand behind him, watching him take in his own reflection. “It’s funny,” he says thoughtfully. “I would have given anything not to wear these damned things in my youth, and here you are looking at them as though they’re the most magnificent clothes in the world. I guess it goes to show, we all want what we’ve never had.”

“I suppose so,” Credence answers breathlessly. For the first time, seeing Graves’s reflection alongside his own, he doesn’t feel like a pitiful ghost in comparison. For the first time, he looks like he could belong.

“Ready?” Graves asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“As much as can be expected.”

Graves’s eyebrows raise as if in agreement before he takes Credence’s wrist. The world compresses, and this time when it returns to normal, Credence manages to stay on his feet.

“Punctual as ever, I see,” says the familiar voice.

Credence looks up to Tina standing alongside the wizarding president.

“Ms. Goldstein. President Picquery,” Graves says, nodding to each in turn.

“Lovely of you to join us at long last,” the president says dryly.

“I wouldn’t have wanted to push Credence or myself beyond our recovery,” Graves says innocently.

The president gives a disbelieving hum. “But you can manage to buy the boy robes and accost my aurors until they return your wand.”

“Naturally. And I think you’ll find that they’re still my aurors as well,” Graves says. “Unless, of course, you plan to extend my leave into an early retirement.”

Her lips tighten, but she merely says, “The two of you will be interviewed separately. Ms. Goldstein will take the boy, and as no one else would have you, I’ll be conducting your interview myself, Mr. Graves.”

Graves tosses Credence a quick look before sweeping a hand. “Lead the way.”

As soon as they’re out of sight, Tina smiles at Credence. “There’s no need to worry. Neither of you are in any trouble,” she says before motioning with her folder for him to follow.

As they walk, Credence’s hand drifts to the pocket of his robes, fingers running over the smooth finish of his wand.

Tina’s eyes dart down to track the movement. She does a double take. “Did he-- Credence, did Graves take you to get a wand?” she asks in amazement.

“I--” he starts. “Was he not supposed to?”

Tina shakes her head, more to herself than to answer the question. “He really is teaching you magic. That man, always full of surprises.”

“How do you mean?”

“Percival Graves isn’t the kind of man who typically has the patience for things like teaching and wand shopping. You must have made some kind of impression on him,” she says.

Credence has no idea what to make of that statement. Tina leads him into a small, sterile room that instantly sets his teeth on edge. She sits down at a table across from him, spreading the contents of the folder out in front of her.

“Now,” she starts, voice going serious yet still gentle. “I’m going to ask you some questions. I need you to answer them as honestly as possible, okay?”

Credence nods.

“Good. First off, I need you to state who you are for the record.”

Credence resists the urge to say that he’s not even sure about that and instead says, “My name is Credence Barebone.”

Tina bobs her head encouragingly. “Good. Please tell what you know of your background.”

“Not much. I’m nineteen. I was adopted by Mary Lou Barebone at the age of eight from the Manhattan Boy’s Orphanage. She was the leader of the Second Salem Church, and I was expected to aid her in its mission to raise awareness of witches.”

“Do you remember anything about your birth parents?”

“Nothing,” Credence shakes his head, then hesitates. “Only... I remember what I think was my mother talking into bright green flames, just like floo flames.”

Tina jots down a note, then asks, “What can you tell me of the man you believed to be Percival Graves until recently?”

“His real name is Grindelwald. He’s a wanted man. He held Graves captive and used a potion to take on his appearance.”

“And did you know any of this prior to finding the real Mr. Graves?”

“No,” Credence says. “No, I didn’t.”

“How did you meet Grindelwald?” she asks carefully, as though afraid she might break him with the question.

“He-- he approached me after one of the Second Salem meetings. He offered to buy me lunch, said he wanted to hear more about the cause. Then he started asking me about the kids Ma took care of,” Credence says, forcing his voice to hold steady. “I-- I shyed away at first; I’d met men with ill intentions towards the orphans before, you see-- they’re easy targets because no one cares.”

Tina sucks in a sharp breath

“But-- but then he said it was only one child in particular he was interested in, but that he didn’t know which one-- that there was something special about that child, something Ma would hurt them for if she knew,” Credence continues. “He showed me things-- magic, I mean. He told me that I could learn too, and that he’d teach me if I helped him. He made me trust him; he healed me, sometimes.”

Tina’s voice shakes ever so slightly as she asks, “From your mother?”

“Yes,” he says, and it comes out breathless.

“Did you know what he planned to do with the child once he found them?”

“No,” Credence says, and this time his voice does waver. “He only told me that the child could help the wizarding world. He never said how.”

“Do you have any memory of what happened during the obscurus attacks?”

“No,” he says hoarsely.

“Good,” Tina whispers, and Credence isn’t entirely sure she meant to say it aloud. “Just one last thing: Is there anything you feel we should know about your time with Grindelwald?”

A flash of a memory; a man who wasn’t Graves; lips pressed roughly to his own.

Credence’s hands clench into fists in his lap. “No, ma’am.”

Tina gathers her papers, tapping them into line on the table before placing them back into the folder. “That’s all the questions I have prepared for you. Now, Let’s go find Mr. Graves.”

Credence exhales in relief as soon as he’s out of the room. Tina’s eyes have pinched lines around them; her fingers are white knuckled on the folder as they walk, but Credence tries to ignore it. He’s had enough pity to last him a lifetime.

They round a corner to see Graves standing at the end of a long hall, and only the sight of President Picquery beside him keeps Credence from breaking into a sprint. When they get closer, however, he can see that Graves’s mouth is drawn tight and his arms are crossed defensively over his chest-- a pose Credence has never seen on him.

“Let it be known that I strongly disagree with your decision, Madam President,” Graves says loud enough to carry.

Tina looks between the pair of them as she approaches. “What’s happened?”

Graves gestures angrily at Credence. “She insists on Credence and me joining her for Grindelwald’s latest round of interrogation.”

Credence’s breath catches like a bucket of freezing water has just been dumped over his head. For a moment, air won’t come no matter how hard he tries, then Tina is saying from far off, “You can’t be serious. President Picquery, neither of them should be in the same room with him, not after everything he’s done to--”

“I’ve made my decision,” President Picquery says cooly. “We need them to verify or deny what he has to say.”

Graves’s hand settles onto Credence’s shoulder, and the whole world seems to re-emerge from its distant state. “It’s only out of respect for your position that I’m obeying this ridiculous order,” Graves hisses.

“And that’s all I ask of you, Director Graves,” she says.

Tina takes a step closer. “Madam President, please--”

“Enough, Goldstein,” the president snaps. “Either hold your tongue, or remain outside.”

Tina’s mouth snaps shut, fury written in every line of her body. She follows them wordlessly into the room.

It’s more a court than an interrogation room, Credence realizes as they enter. Seats are set into a sinking semi-circle. A handful of wizards and witches dot the benches, most with quill poised over paper. The central floor is quarantined by some kind of magical barrier, like looking through a soap bubble, and at its center sits a figure.

Credence gasps and clutches Graves’s arm, whose grip tightens on his shoulder at the same moment.

The face of the man is unfamiliar, but even from this distance, Credence recognizes the eyes and the smirk.

He resists the urge to hide behind Graves and Tina.

“It’s alright. He can’t get to us,” Graves assures him-- and maybe himself, as well.

Credence can’t help the thought that Grindelwald’s touch was only half of his poison.

“State your name for the record,” booms an unseen man’s voice.

“Gellert Grindelwald,” the blond man says in an unfamiliar German accent.

“And did you, sixteen days ago, knowingly and with the intent to expose the wizarding community provoke an obscurus attack on Lower Manhattan?”

“I do not know,” the man says tilting his head as if in thought. “It sounds rather like something I would do, but you see, there is no calendar in my prison cell.”

“Enough foolery,” the president calls, drawing Grindelwald’s attention to them. Credence sincerely wishes she hadn’t.

“Ah, if it is not my two most amusing pieces, together at last,” Grindelwald says with too much delight. “Percival. Credence. You are both looking much better, indeed.”

“Do not address them,” the male interrogator calls.

Grindelwald throws his head back and laughs.

“He’s insane,” Tina whispers, horrified.

“No,” Graves mutters through his teeth. “That’s the terrifying thing about him: he’s not.”

“Sweet boy, broken boy,” Grindelwald croons, looking directly at Credence through the barrier. “I see you still cling to the face that first showed you magic.”

Graves steps in front of Credence, shielding him from the cold, piercing gaze.

“Credence,” Grindelwald says seriously, rolling the R of his name. “They will never accept you. They will spurn you. They can never give you what I gave you-- understanding, tolerance.”

Credence feels himself start to shake. He takes a step back, towards the door.

“There’s nothing tolerant about you,” someone calls. Credence thinks it might have been Tina.

Whoever it was, Grindelwald ignores them. “I lied, child. Wizards are not like you. You and I are as much outsiders in the wizarding world as in the mundane one. You have nothing to gain by siding with them.”

Credence lurches for the door. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

He’d known it was a lie just like everything else about magic that came from Grindelwald’s mouth. He’s known it since two days into his stay in the MACUSA cells when he heard one guard say to another, “You hear? Word has it Grindelwald’s some sort of invert.” Still, he’d tried not to think about it, tried to not let the hopelessness overtake him.

Outside, he leans against the wall. The coolness of the stone feels steadying as he leans against it.

Graves bursts from the room, face writ with worry, quickly followed by President Picquery.

“Are you okay?” he asks, just as she asks coolly, “What was that?”

President Picquery’s words aren’t as much a question as an order. Credence shakes his head; not really sure which he intends to answer.

Behind them, Tina hovers nervously. “I told you this was an awful idea,” she says, fingernails digging into the skin of her arm.

Graves’s rough hands are on his shoulders, his cheeks, forcing him to make eye contact. “You have to tell us what’s going on.”

Credence can only shake his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t. I can’t.”

The president takes a step closer. “Barebone, what haven’t you told us? What was he talking about?”

“Nothing. Nothing important.”

“Everything Grindelwald said to you is important,” she says, kinder this time. “All of it could influence you, hurt you.”

“It already has,” he says miserably.

“Tell us,” Graves says, squeezing his shoulder in what he probably intends to be a reassuring manner.

Credence knows there’s no escape, knows his sins have caught up at last. Still, he can’t look at them. He can’t watch as this new life he’s come to love slips from his grasp. “He- he knew other things about me, terrible things. I don’t think he kn-- knew when we first met, but it didn’t take him long to figure out that I was broken.”

Before they can ask, he takes a sharp, stuttering breath, then continues, “He told me my brokenness was considered normal for wizards-- lies, like everything else he told me. There is no danger to you. He was only using me yet again, telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“I’m sorry, Credence, but you have to be more specific,” Graves says, and there’s such tenderness in the words that Credence thinks he’s rather eat his own tongue than tell the full truth. He rocks back and forth slightly, a high keening noise coming out of his throat.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” the president says, losing her patience. She produces a small crystal bottle from her pocket. When she reaches for Credence, though, Graves grabs her wrist.

“He is no criminal,” he hisses.

“But he is dangerous. Grindelwald's influence on him could hurt us all. You would do well to remember your place, Mr. Graves.” She shakes off his grip with an acidic glare.

Graves grasps Credence’s hand, squeezing it urgently. “You must tell us the truth, or she’s going to give you something that will compel you. Please, Credence, don’t make her do that.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to speak under the influence of veritaserum,” President Picquery says, voice soft, almost seductive. “Sometimes, when you have to tell an unpleasant truth, it’s easier not to do so under your own power. You don’t have to think about what you’re saying; your body simply says it for you.”

Graves gives her a scornful look, but she pretends not to notice.

Credence draws a shaking breath. “Do it.”

She grips his jaw, forcing his mouth open so she can tip a single drop of clear liquid into it. Behind her, Tina paces away, hands on her hips, before returning. Graves takes a step back, anger on his face. Credence wonders if it’s at his weakness in choosing to have magic tell the truth for him.

“Now, what other information did Grindelwald use to manipulate you?” President Picquery asks.

This time, the words come easily, without stuttering. She was right; it’s much easier to condemn himself like this. “He knew that I’m an invert.”

There’s a sharp breath, but he can't tell from whom.

“How did he use this against you?” the president presses.

“He told me he was the same way and that it wasn’t uncommon for magical people.” There’s an odd monotone to Credence’s voice when he speaks. It echoes in his ears like the drone of a ghost.

“So he used your desire to be considered normal to incentivise you find the obscurus?”

Credence closes his eyes. “Yes.”

She steps back, apparently satisfied. “Well, that confirms the rumors about Grindelwald's preferences. That could come in useful.”

“Credence should be taken somewhere no one can take advantage of his state,” Tina puts in, worry in her voice.

“Graves, deal with this,” President Picquery orders. “Goldstein, with me.”

“With your permission, Madam President, I’ll take him back to my apartment,” Graves says.

“Do what you will,” the president dismisses.

Credence can’t open his eyes. Whatever dealing with him involves, he knows he won’t be able to escape in the heart of MACUSA. He wonders if it’s worth trying when even if he makes it out, he’ll be cut off from the wizarding world once more. The old him wouldn’t have tried, and that makes him wonder if maybe it’s still worth it, just to spite that shadow of a boy.

A hand wraps around his upper arm, and he doesn’t struggle. The pressure of apparition comes and goes, leaving him no more breathless than he was before. He wishes President Picquery had left him with Tina; at least she might have let him go.

Credence finally opens his eyes to see Graves’s kitchen. Graves stands in front of him, expression unreadable. They stare at one another in silence. Credence manages to maintain eye contact with the older man; if a blow is going to come, he wants Graves to have to look him in the eye.

“Credence,” Graves says, voice rough. He doesn’t have his wand drawn, but that doesn’t mean much.

Credence says nothing, only glances behind Graves to see just how far to the door.

“Credence,” Graves repeats, like he expects him to _do_ something. It’s almost enough to make Credence laugh. When Graves doesn’t get whatever response he expects, he reaches towards him.

Credence scuttles backwards. His eyes dart around the room like a caged animal, and he grips the wand in his pocket even though he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Graves startles, eyes widening. Credence wonders if he wasn’t expecting him to put up a fight.

“Credence,” he says again, hand still outstretched.

“Stop saying my name,” Credence spits.

Something sad passes over Graves’s features. He takes a shaking breath and asks, “What do you expect me to do to you?”

Whatever was in the president’s potion forces him to speak. “Beat me. Curse me. Whatever your world does to people like me.”

“Our world,” Graves says, something like desperation in his eyes, like he needs Credence to understand. “It’s our world, Credence, not just mine.”

Credence shakes his head. “You heard what I said back there. I’m an invert, a freak.”

“Oh, my poor boy,” Graves sighs. He takes half a step like he wants to move closer but stops himself.

“I am not guiltless. I have not resisted temptation,” Credence insists, almost desperate that Graves do something, _anything_ other than look at him with impossible compassion in his eyes. “I wanted what Grindelwald offered.”

Graves staggers back a step. His breath stutters out in a satisfying whoosh, and Credence can’t help some perverse satisfaction at finally getting a reaction from the man.

“I’m sorry to ask this when you’re under the influence of veritaserum,” Graves starts, “but it’s important that I know. Did Grindelwald force you into anything?”

“No.”

“Did Grindelwald try to force you into anything?”

Credence tries to say no, but the potion coursing through his system morphs the word by the time it leaves his lips. “I don’t know.”

Graves holds his hands out, palms up, an offer. “I’m never going to hurt you. Please, believe me. You are so important to me, and you don’t even realize it. You remind me that there are good things in this hellish world.”

“How can you say that?” Credence pleads, eyeing the proffered hands. “After-- after-- what you know.”

“It’s true that attractions like yours are not common in our world, no more so than in the no-maj one. They are not-- talked about, at least not in proper social circles, but neither are they prosecuted by our laws.”

Credence had to close his eyes against the tilting of his world. Without thought, he takes the hands Graves still has outstretched and lets himself be led to a kitchen chair.

“I always thought I got what I deserve for my transgressions, in the end,” he says, voice cracking. The guilt weighs on him like shackles.

“Credence, no, no,” Grave says. He moves to kneel in front of him, resting a hand on his knee. “You didn’t do anything to deserve what he did.”

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve only desired men. Grindelwald didn’t cause that.” Credence flinches away from his own admission of culpability, but Graves has to have no illusions about him. “I let him kiss me. I wanted him to.”

“It would make no difference if you let him take you to bed,” Graves says gently. “You were ill-used by him, and it’s no fault of your own.”

“I didn’t-- let him take me to bed, I mean.” Credence looks down at the floor, the words sending heat rushing to his face. “I thought-- At the time, I thought it was only the sin of it that made it feel so wrong, but I suppose some part of me sensed that the man didn’t match the face.”

A pained expression passes over Graves’s face at the mention of Grindelwald’s appearance, and humiliation and guilt wash over Credence. No matter how kind Graves may be, the idea that Credence had made contact like that with his body, even a replica, has to be discomforting, repulsive even.

Instead of addressing it directly, Graves asks, “Would you rather I find you somewhere else to stay-- someone else to teach you magic? That can be arranged.”

“No,” Credence says desperately. “But if you would rather, I understand.”

“After everything I’ve said, what could possibly make you think I want you to leave?” Graves asks, almost exasperated.

“He took the shape of your body. No matter how unknowingly, I committed a sin against the body of an innocent man.”

“Look at me, Credence,” he orders, waiting. He squeezes the hand still clasped in Credence’s.

Reluctantly, Credence does. There’s sadness and pain and sympathy that Credence can almost believe is empathy in his liquid brown eyes.

“There is nothing wrong with you.” Graves says slowly, emphatically. “There is no sin in the things you feel.”

The words wash over Credence like a benediction. He's not sure he believes them, but the very fact that Graves does soothes something that’s long been an open wound on his conscience.

“I need you to tell me one last thing, okay?” Graves swallows hard, an expression of guilt on his face. “When you look at me, do you see him?”

“Never,” Credence says, and he doesn’t need the veritaserum to know that it’s true.

Graves stands, his knees popping. “Come,” he says, and leads Credence into the living room by their still-joined hands.

One handed, he pours a glass of amber liquid from the decanter before settling them on the couch. Graves slumps and taps radio with wand. It cuts to a man talking about broom regulations. He sighs tiredly, twirling his wand until something slow and jazzy starts playing. Apparently satisfied, he takes a long drink.

“Will Tina think badly of me?” Credence asks, giving voice to the question that's been worrying the back of his mind.

“I daresay she’s been an auror for far too long to care about such things,” Graves says. “We see too many travesties in our line of work to still be concerned by sexual preferences that harm none. I suspect she’s more concerned for your welfare and the damage Grindelwald might have wrought on you than any interest you have in men.”

To hear it put so plainly, so simply, makes something akin to relief swell in Credence’s chest.

“Scotch?” Graves offers, tilting the glass towards him.

Credence takes it, only then realizing he still has Graves’s hand in a death grip. Guiltily, he lets go and takes a long drink. The liquor burns white hot down his throat, and he coughs, once.

“Easy there,” Graves says with a smile.

Credence meets his eye and takes another drink, smaller this time, before passing the glass back.

Some endless time passes like that-- the pair of them sharing the glass as the radio hums softly in the background. Credence takes the last drink, intentionally putting his lips were Graves’s had been only a moment before.

His world spins, just a little. The alcohol has eased his shame, and for the first time he lets himself acknowledge what he wants, who he wants.

He wants Graves-- not the pale shadow he knew before, but the real man, warm at his side. He wants what he can’t have. Still, he knows he’ll never ask for more, knows he’ll never push his luck when he finally has someone who accepts him.

Without consciously deciding to do so, Credence lists sideways. He pulls his knees to his chest and lays his head in Grave’s lap. Above him, there’s an amused huff.

As the world slides away, fingers slip into his hair. It astounds him that after everything Graves knows, he’s still willing to touch him like this. Credence thinks he might already be dreaming-- Graves warm beside and under him, one hand along the curve of his neck, the other carding through his hair.

A low humming fills the room, rusty and out of time with the radio. It sounds familiar, Credence thinks, before the world is lost to him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Graves’s hands are on him, careful and tender and oh so gentle--_

_Warm, rough hands that trace up his bare stomach, his chest, his neck with aching slowness--_

_Warm breath on his ear, desire in his gut--_

_“Sweet boy, broken boy”--_

_\-- and the voice is not that of Graves._

Credence jerks awake, throat still working around the hiss of breath that had been a scream in his dream. He sits up, running a hand through his hair. The sheets have been kicked aside, as though he’d freed himself from their hold in an attempt to escape Grindelwald’s.

He breathes deeply, trying to settle his body’s confused response to the dream. His night shirt is soaked through with cold sweat, and he’s half hard in his thin cotton pants. He stands on wobbly legs and goes to the dresser. He changes into a fresh set of pajamas with his back to the mirror.

It’s been a week since Graves found out the truth about him-- a week of learning magic and reading; a week of sharing most meals; a week where nothing has changed.

They’ve fallen into an easy rhythm of sorts; reading in the morning, magic in the evening. Most days Graves takes him to an unfamiliar part of the city for lunch. Some days, the restaurants are magical, confections topped with candies that fizz and pop; others, they’re merely posh enough to feel like magic to Credence.

Graves never brings up the things Credence admitted. His casual intimacies haven’t ceased, his warm touches haven’t changed. In sum, he seems utterly unconcerned and unaware that Credence could harbor an attraction to him, much less something larger, something more unnameable.

Credence’s clock says it’s past two in the morning. Unwilling to return to bed and face the ghosts of his unconscious mind, he pads slowly into the kitchen. To his surprise, light spills from the doorway to Graves’s room.

He starts to retreat to his own room so as not to disturb him, but as he takes a step back, his weight falls on one of the squeaking floorboards. A shrill creak breaks the quiet night, and he closes his eyes as if in prayer.

“Credence?” Graves’s voice asks from the bedroom.

Credence lets out the breath he’d been holding. He thinks he might be relieved. “It’s me,” he offers. He leans in the open doorway, not crossing the threshold, but far enough that Graves can see him. Graves’s room is much like the rest of the apartment, warm and rich and lined with bookshelves.

Graves looks back at him over the top of a book, thin black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. An empty scotch glass rests on his bedside table. “What has you up at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Credence says, feeling bold. Still, he answers, “I had a dream.”

“Ah,” Graves says, and that single syllable conveys an entire world of understanding. He pats the coverlet beside him. “Come. Sit. We can evade our sleeping minds together for a while.”

Slow steps carry Credence to the edge of the bed. He clambers on gracelessly, limbs too long and elbows too sharp. He sits, knees pulled to his chest, a respectable distance between them.

“You’re wearing...” he starts tentatively, motioning vaguely to indicate the glasses perched on Graves’s nose.

“Huh? Oh, these.” Graves adjusts the glasses like he’d forgotten they were there. “I only need them when I read, and even then, not usually.”

“I didn’t know,” Credence says.

“Almost no one does.” He points a finger at Credence. “And don’t you dare tell Goldstein about them. She’ll insist I wear them at every turn, and I’m not ready to be that old, yet.”

Credence mimes zipping his lips, and that brings a smile to Graves’s face.

Something occurs to Credence. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“Thirty-nine as of three months ago,” Graves says.

Credence suppresses a shudder. Three months ago, Graves was being held in a lightless room. “I’m sorry,” he says without thinking.

“Being almost forty isn’t that bad,” Graves says with forced levity.

“You now that’s not what I meant.”

Graves sighs, dropping the act. “I didn’t even realize my birthday had passed until you got me out of there. For all I knew, I could’ve been there five months or five years.”

A chill runs down Credence’s spine, only partially because of the cool night air. He hugs his knees closer, trying to dispel it. Graves must notice, though, because he says, “You know, you can get under the covers if you’re cold.”

Credence starts to object-- it’s too intimate a gesture, too much like what he longs for-- but cold and good sense and just a hint of desire win out. He slides beneath the comforter, which is even plusher than his own; he hadn’t realized such a thing was possible.

“What’re you reading?” he asks to distract himself from the way he can feel Graves’s warmth radiating next to him.

“Oscar Wilde,” Graves says, tilting the book so Credence can see the cover. Credence has no idea who that is, but he doesn’t say as much. As ever, Graves supplies the answer so he doesn’t have to ask. “He’s a no-maj playwright, and one of the great voices of wit.”

Credence nods in understanding.

“Also,” Graves adds, a wry smile on his lips, “as queer as any man alive today.”

Credence chokes on his indrawn breath. “What?”

Graves hums, considering. “During his lifetime, he was well known for pressing the lines of plausible deniability to their brink. Eventually, though, he bedded the wrong aristocrat and was put on trial at the height of his fame.”

“H-how do you mean, he-- he bedded the wrong aristocrat?” Credence asks, heat rising in his cheeks.

“His lover’s father was a Marquess who didn’t take kindly to Wilde’s involvement with his son. Fame can only protect you from so much.”

“I-I see,” Credence says, even though he really doesn’t. His head reels from discussing such matters so blithely. “What sort of plays did he write?”

“Comedies of wordplay, mostly, though his dramas are also masterworks,” Graves says. “I was reading his only novel, which-- let me tell you-- if anyone doubted his proclivities towards men, this likely erased them.”

“It sounds-- interesting,” Credence manages, voice rising in octave.

Graves gives him a sly look. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

Credence fervently wants to say yes, so curious is he, but he knows it’s a terrible idea. Graves’s voice wrapping itself around such a novel while Credence sits in bed beside him seems like a recipe for disaster, so he shakes his head. “I-- I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Come now,” Graves says. “You can ask anything of me.”

No, Credence thinks, he can’t. But instead of arguing the point, he says honestly, “I’m not sure that’s something I’m ready to hear just yet.”

Graves nods slowly, as if understanding. “One of his plays, then. _The Importance of Being Earnest_.”

This time, Credence acquiesces with a small, “Okay.” After all, if the play was performed on a public stage, surely it can’t contain anything too scandalous. So, he settles in as Graves flips the pages of his book.

“ _Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?_ ” Graves begins in an English accent before switching tone to say, “ _I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir._ ”

Credence listens with rapt attention as Graves reads, changing his voice ever so slightly with each character. It gives Credence an excuse to study his face without being noticed-- the dark circles under his bright eyes; the grey that flecks his hair, loose from its usual pomade; his stubble, a fine shadow across his face.

Credence finds himself laughing out loud at the story’s wit and wordplay and considering the subtle wisdoms hidden under the humor. It’s nearly impossible to believe that the man who wrote this was like him. For the first time, Credence considers the possibility that men like himself are more than good-for-nothings never destined to amount to anything.

At some point he finds himself sinking further under the covers, laying his head on the pillow, and watching Graves through half-shut eyes. He begins to drift off only to jerk back to wakefulness.

He makes to sit back up, not wanting to impose himself, but he finds that one of Graves’s hands has once again made its way to his hair. So, he stays. He stays, and enjoys Graves next to him, the lilt of his voice, the warmth of the story.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He doesn’t remember dreaming.

Next morning, Credence wakes alone in Graves’s bed. For a long minute he doesn’t move. He lays there, still and warm and safe, cocooned in Graves’s scent. He wants to stay like this forever, but his body threatens to express just _how much_ it enjoys the moment. It feels like a betrayal after Graves’s hospitality and unflinching acceptance, so he forces himself out of bed.

He carefully makes the bed before padding into the kitchen. Graves sits at the table already dressed, coffee in one hand, paper in the other. He looks up when Credence enters, the slight smile on his lips a stark contrast to the tired lines surrounding his eyes.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep last night,” Credence says.

“I rather thought that was the point,” Graves says.

“In your bed, I mean.”

Graves waves away the apology. “It’s big enough for both of us.”

For some reason, that statement more than anything makes a blush rise in Credence’s cheeks. It almost sounds like an invitation. He shakes off that thought and goes to the stove to pour himself coffee. Today, he puts cream in it without feeling guilty.

Just as he’s about to take a seat at the table, a tap tap tap echoes through the apartment. Graves swallows his sip of coffee and gestures towards the window behind him. “Get that, would you.”

Credence nods and steps towards the window, unsure what exactly what he’s supposed to be getting until he sees a large grey and black flecked owl perched on the ledge outside. He starts when the bird looks at him with eerily intelligent eyes and taps twice more on the glass.

He opens the window, and the massive bird hops inside, a letter clutched in its beak. It hoots insistently, proffering the paper. Speechless, Credence takes it. Before he has a chance to look at it properly, the owl flaps its wings as though wanting his attention.

“He wants a treat. They’re in the jar beside the window,” Graves says from the table. “He’ll let you pet him. Tina spoils the little bastard rotten.”

Credence picks a brown pellet out of the jar indicated and cautiously holds it out. The owl plucks it from his hand without hesitation, hooting contentedly. Slowly, carefully, Credence reaches out his fingers to brush the speckled feathers. When the owl nuzzles into the touch, he runs his full palm over its head.

“Hello,” he murmurs.

He gets a soft hoot-hoot in reply.

Ma never let them have pets-- why bother, when they have no souls, she’d said. But now, watching the intelligence and understanding in the bird’s eyes, he doesn’t believe for a moment that the creature is soulless.

“His name is Apollo,” Graves says, turning in his chair to watch.

“Hi Apollo,” Credence whispers. “My name is Credence.”

The owl hoots again in response before flying across the room to perch on Graves’s shoulder. Graves ignores him for the span of another sip of coffee, and Apollo nips him on the ear.

“Ouch!” Graves says before reaching up to scratch his feathers. “Alright, alright. You want an answer, I get it. May I see that letter, Credence?”

Credence passes over the envelope, just able to read “To Misters Graves & Barebone”. Graves runs a finger under the wax seal and unfolds a piece of paper. His eyes skim across it at a blinding speed before looking up at Credence.

“Tina wants to know if we’d be amenable to getting an early dinner with her today,” Graves says. “She seems to be under the impression that we’re both traumatized after last week’s events and won’t believe otherwise without seeing us for herself.”

Credence can’t help a small laugh, because that does indeed sound very like Tina. “I’d like that,” he says.

“It’s settled, then,” Graves says. He goes to the writing desk in the corner of the room and begins digging through drawers, looking more and more frustrated as he does. Finally, he looks up, offense in every line of his body. “That fucker took all of my good quills.”

Credence can’t help his snort of laughter at the affronted expression on Graves’s face.

Graves sighs and takes a pencil instead, scribbling something hastily in the back of Tina’s letter before handing back to Apollo.

“Tina,” Graves says slowly to the owl. “No stopping for snacks this time.”

Apollo ruffles his feathers as if just as affronted as Graves. Suddenly, Credence can’t help the thought that the pair of them don’t look dissimilar, both proud and flecked with grey.

Apollo takes off, and Graves closes the window with a resigned sigh. “He’s going to stop for rats. That owl is always late. There’s a bookstore near the restaurant, so I can stop for more quills while we wait. I might see if they have some beginner writing and spell books for you, too,” he adds thoughtfully.

Credence nods, still unable to open his mouth for fear he’ll compare Graves to an owl. He can’t seem to shake the mental image.

Sometime later, they emerge into Pendragon Square. Credence is steadily getting better at traveling via floo and apparition without stumbling.

Graves leads him to store called _Inked & Bound_. Every available space inside is taken up by impossibly tall bookcases overflowing with jewel-colored volumes. Graves stops at a display containing inks of endless color. He selects a bottle of royal blue and three quills before approaching the front counter.

The cashier has her back to them, absorbed in a book.

Graves clears his throat. “Excuse me.”

The girl jumps. “Yes?” she asks, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she turns to them. “Oh, Auror Graves!”

“Ms. Spenton,” Graves says, impassive but with something Credence thinks might be shock in his eyes.

“Auror Graves,” she repeats, blinking.

“Director, now, actually,” he corrects.

“You got a promotion?” the young woman asks, something Credence doesn’t quite like sparking in her eyes. She’s older than him by some years, but still younger than Graves. Her accent carries the awkward roundness of someone trying to sound refined-- and failing, Credence thinks meanly.

“A while ago,” Graves says. “You’re back from Australia, I see.”

“Yes, yes. Things didn’t quite go as planned.”

“I’m sorry to hear,” he says, looking utterly unsurprised. “It was a promising engagement.”

“Not really,” she dismisses. She leans on the counter in a way that even Credence can identify as seductive. Something new and possessive sparks in Credence’s chest. She glances at him, then does a double take. “Is this your son?”

Before Credence can find his voice to say no, Graves swings an arm around his shoulders. “Indeed. He’s recently gotten back from studying abroad. Credence, this is Shelly Spenton. Shelly, this is Credence Graves.”

The words warm something in Credence, even if he has no idea what’s happening. “Hello,” he says.

“Merlin’s beard,” she says, amazement in her tone. “And Ian always said you weren’t the marrying sort.”

Graves changes the subject before it can venture into more dangerous territory. “Do you have any books on beginner or remedial magic?”

Shelly blinks through her glasses and looks at Credence. “Oh, right,” she says like she’s just figured something else. “This way.”

She waves a hand and comes around the counter to lead them to the very back of the store. Credence’s eyes flick over titles he can barely read, but Graves’s face darken instantly.

“I didn’t mean for squibs,” he grits out.

“But he’s a squib, isn’t he?” she asks. “That’s why I’ve never seen him with you before.”

“Ms. Spenton,” Graves says in a carefully controlled tone. “The Graves line has never produced a squib, and Credence sure as hell isn’t the first.”

Shelly holds up her hands placatingly. “It’s not a problem.”

Graves’s face begins turning a truly concerning shade of red, and Credence speaks before he says anything out of anger. “I lived in Europe for much of my youth, so I missed out on a proper wizarding education,” he lies. He’s not even sure if such a thing is plausible in the wizarding world. Still, Shelly appears to believe him.

Five minutes and three books later, Credence and Graves reemerge onto the street.

“She’s going to think I'm an awful father now for not ensuring your name was on Ilvermorny’s list,” Graves laments.

“Why did you tell her I was your son in the first place?”

“I panicked.” A pained expression crosses Graves’s face. “She’s the sister of someone I-- an old acquaintance. She’s a nice enough woman, but--”

“She wants to marry well,” Credence finishes.

Graves looks at him in surprise. “Yes.”

“I may be naive, but I’m not blind,” Credence says. “She looked as if she’d marry you on the spot when you said you got a promotion.”

“My problem precisely,” Graves says darkly. “I’d rather someone want me for my immensely cuddly personality than for my income, and that’s not going to happen with either of the Spenton siblings. They both see a blank check instead of a man.”

“Can I ask,” Credence starts. “Why do people talk about squibs like they’re so shameful?”

“Squibs-- are often considered the failing of a magical bloodline,” Graves says carefully.

“But don’t no-majs sometimes produce wizarding offspring? Wouldn’t the reverse make sense, too?”

“Not exactly. You see, squibs still retain enough magic to see creatures limited to magical sight and to not be fooled by no-maj repulsion spells. So, if the reverse were true and they really were the same as no-maj-born wizards, years of prejudices against no-maj-borns would be validated.”

“Because it would mean they don’t have as strong of magic,” Credence reasons.

“Exactly,” Graves agrees. “Squibs still have at least a little magic, but not enough that they can do anything with it. Few make it past their first or second year of school.”

“You got so mad when she suggested your child could be one,” Credence says softly.

Something embarrassed and sad runs over Graves’s face. “Though I try not to be, I’m still a product of my generation. I’ve tried to abandon the prejudices and prides of it, but a few yet linger.”

“She-- she thought you'd kept me hidden because I was a squib,” Credence says. He doesn’t know how to ask if it’s true, if Graves would keep such a child apart from this world of magic, as he so nearly had been.

Graves stops walking. “I would never do such a thing-- not to you and not to any child. However, sadly such behavior isn’t unheard of, especially among purebloods.”

“That’s what you are, right? A pureblood.”

“The Graves family line is pureblood, yes. But truth be told, it’s only nominal,” Graves says. “Everyone knows that there are next to no true purebloods in America. There were so few of us to start with that we’d be too inbred to hold a wand properly if the old lines were kept. That’s part of why blood status matters so little here in comparison to Europe.”

“I’m not, though, am I-- pureblood,” Credence says, not managing to make it a question.

“Most likely, no,” Graves agrees. “It’s much more probable that you’re a half-blood-- the child of mixed lineage.”

Credence looks down at the sidewalk. It’s odd; he’s always felt that there were many people in the world who were somehow better than him, but he’d never quite considered his lineage as one of the reasons. Sure, Ma had outright told him that he was likely a bastard child, but the circumstances of his birth had never seemed as important as his present state-- a pitiful, poverty-stricken orphan taken in by a fanatical woman.

“Credence, you’re no less than any other wizard because of your parentage,” Graves says.

Credence looks at him. Graves looks wrongfooted, as if this isn’t something he’s accustomed to discussing. Credence can’t help the nagging thought that even if Graves believes what he says now, he hasn’t always done.

“We’re here,” Graves says. He leads Credence into a restaurant like any other, finer perhaps than those Credence has been in before, but still an ordinary restaurant.

Ordinary, that is, until an inhumanly beautiful woman with pointed teeth asks if they have a reservation.

Graves looks just over her shoulder, not quite looking at her as he says, “For Graves.”

“Excellent,” she says with a sharp smile. “You’re the first of your party to arrive.”

“Fucking owl,” Graves murmurs under his breath as she leads them to a table. He takes the seat beside Credence, and it’s a change from their usual eating arrangement.

“Your server will be along shortly.” The woman gives Credence a benevolent smile, and for a moment he’s stunned by her sheer radiance. It’s not attraction, not quite-- more like captivation. He watches her go until Graves gently turns his head away with two fingers.

“Half-veela, half-- well, I don’t even know what else. Merperson, possibly,” he says, smiling as Credence shakes himself out of his daze. “Her name is Alanna-- known locally as the Siren and one of the greatest chefs in Manhattan. You might not be interested in women, but you’ll still find yourself following her every whim if you don’t watch it.”

Credence clears his throat. “How come you’re not affected by her?”

“Oh, I am.” Graves chuckles. “Just keep in mind that she could rip your throat out with her teeth in three seconds, and it’ll help.”

Before Credence can find a proper response to that, the bell above the door gives a pleasant ding.

“I’m so sorry,” Tina says breathlessly, half-jogging across the restaurant. Another woman follows more gracefully in her wake. “Apollo got lost again.”

“No,” Graves says slowly, “Apollo stopped for food. You really should just stuff that bird and have it done.”

“You adore him, and you know it,” Tina says before turning to the other woman. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Queenie. We were out together when Apollo finally found us.”

“You know I never mind Queenie.” Graves gives a warm smile, but even as beautiful as the new woman is, there’s nothing lascivious in it, simply fondness.

“Such a charmer, just like your sister,” the strawberry blond woman says as she sits.

Credence wonders at that; Graves never mentioned having a sister, but then, he supposes it’s never come up.

“Oh, I was a couple years behind the younger Graves sibling at Ilvermorny,” she says, looking directly at Credence. “Queenie Goldstein.”

She offers her hand and Credence takes it slowly. “Credence,” he says, not offering his last name.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel right anymore. He thinks about being called Credence Graves, but pushes the whim away before it gets out of hand. He has no illusions-- there’s nothing paternal about what he wants, and considering anything else is simply ridiculous.

Queenie stifles a giggle with her hand, and looks to Tina. “You never warned me how adorable he is.”

Tina sighs. “Good to see you again, Credence. I hope you’ve been well. Fair warning, my sister is a legilimens with no impulse to control it.”

“I try,” Queenie says. “It just never works. You imagine if other people’s thoughts flitted into your head like they were whispering to yous.”

Credence’s stomach drops. This woman can read his mind. She’s heard everything he’s thought so far-- every impure thought he harbors about Graves.

Queenie reaches over to pat his hand. “Oh, you have nothing to worry about. No judgement from me; I’ve heard it all. Besides, you have by far the purest thoughts I’ve ever heard from a grown man.”

Graves snickers gracelessly into this glass of water. Tina jerks slightly, and he grunts in pain.

Credence is fairly sure she just kicked him under the table.

It does nothing to ease the blush spreading over his face. He looks down at his menu and finds that he can read even less than usual. Even the words he can sound out in his head hold no meaning for him. He wonders if he can just point at something random when the server comes. Or just follow someone else’s lead.

“You like pasta or fish?” Queenie asks, giving him a gentle smile. Before he can respond, she says, “A pasta man. Try the Fettuccine Flutterby.” She taps one well-manicured fingernail on a line on the menu.

“Thank you,” Credence says, glad to be spared the humiliation of Tina finding out he can’t read.

A small smile plays across Graves’s lips as he pursues his own menu. Tina shakes her head and says thoughtfully, “I can’t say as I’ve ever seen you smile, at least not a real one. What’s with you?”

Graves looks at her, quirking one eyebrow. “Can’t a man be happy about the prospect of real food after months of starvation and torture?”

Tina looks down at her own menu. “One day that’s going to stop working,” she singsongs dryly.

“What?” he asks, innocently.

“You, throwing uncomfortable facts about your captivity at people to make them stop talking.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “But by then there will be some new uncomfortable truth with which to distract everyone.”

A waiter arrives at their table, wand held aloft to levitate four glasses of water. Credence orders Queenie’s suggestion without incident. It makes something nervous unknot in the pit of his stomach.

He wonders if she can hear Graves’s thoughts, and instantly tries to tamp down his curiosity.

“No, I can’t hear him.” Queenie says, looking unbothered. “You don’t get to be Director of Magical Law Enforcement when any old legilimens can get into your head.”

“You’re hardly any legilimens, Queenie,” Graves says.

“Oh, you. Always too nice.”

“You’re probably the only person to ever say that besides Credence,” Graves says, looking ruffled by the compliment.

Unbidden, Credence’s mind flashes to his earlier comparison of Graves and Apollo. He can’t help imagining Graves as an owl, feathers fluffed up in discomfort.

Queenie laughs out loud. “You’re funny-- you don’t know it, but you’re funny.”

Credence blushes. “Doesn't it cause you trouble? Hearing people’s thoughts, I mean.”

Tina chuckles, and Queenie waves an uncaring hand.“All the time,” she says. “You don’t make many friends when you can hear exactly why they want to be friends with yous.”

Credence looks down, sorry for bringing it up.

“No need to feel sorry,” Queenie dismisses. “It also means that the ones I do make are good, true friends. True outweighs quantity any day.”

Their food arrives, dishes unlike anything Credence has seen before. He has yet to get used to eating in anything other than silence, but Queenie doesn’t seem to mind. She simply answers whatever flits through his head. She doesn’t address his ongoing worry over bloodlines, much to his relief, and funnily, it’s probably the most comfortable he’s ever felt talking to someone apart from with Graves.

“Aw, thank yous,” Queenie says, smiling.

“I think this might be the longest conversation I’ve ever seen him have,” Tina says to Graves.

“I suppose he has to speak his mind when Queenie can read it.” Graves takes a sip of his water before standing. “I’ll go pay at the counter.”

Queenie grins at her sister. “Tina, be a doll and go with him.”

“There’s really no need,” Graves says.

“She needs to get an apple pie to go,” Queenie insists.

Confusion passes over Tina’s face, but she does as Queenie says. Credence suspects that for all her seemingly simple demeanor, Queenie is one of those people you simply listen to if you have good sense.

Queenie giggles again. “Aww, you’re such a sweetheart!” she says as they go.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Credence asks, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“No pulling one over on you,” she says with a smile. “So, me and Teenie, we’s half-bloods like you. There’s no shame in it. Don’t let all that talk ‘bout blood status get to yous.”

“Thank you,” Credence manages, even as unbidden, his thoughts flash to Mr. Graves and his fears that he could never be good enough for a man like him. Not that Graves would ever have a man to begin with. He resolutely pushes the thoughts aside, mentally reciting Psalms in an attempt to hide his thoughts.

“That’s smart. Most people don’t think that fast. You got the making of a good occlumens, with some training,” Queenie says, pointing a finger at him. “I can still hear you, though. Listen hun, you’re too good for any man who thinks your blood status makes him too good for yous. Not that I think your Mr. Graves is that sorta man.”

The phrase ‘his Mr. Graves’ makes Credence’s cheeks heat. “You don’t?” he asks, trying to quell the hope blooming in his chest.

“A gal like me hears things.” Queenie glances at the counter where Tina and Graves are still paying then leans over the table to say in a hushed voice, “Look, you didn’t get it from me, but least a decade ago your Graves had a falling out with the elder Mr. Graves.”

Credence furrows his brow. “Why?”

“Well, his sister took off to England with a no-maj,” Queenie says, something sad in her eyes. “The elder Mr. Graves was right furious, as most purebloods would be. Your Graves though-- he sided with his sister. Apparently he bought them the tickets over there.”

“He was already an auror, though,” Credence says, fairly certain he has the term right.

“Exactly. He risked his career for them.” Queenie puts her palms on the table, leaning back in the booth. “Supposedly there’s more to his ongoing feud with his father, but I don’t know much more than speculation on the rest, so don’t ask. I’m not repeating hearsay. Just know that I don’t think Graves is the sorta man to care about blood status or money.”

“No, I guess not,” Credence says, thinking of Shelly Spenton and her unnamed sister lusting after Graves’s income.

Tina’s face scrunches. “Sister? But the Spentons--” She cuts off as the pair at the counter come back into earshot, a look of startled understanding on her face. She covers a small smile with her fingers just as Tina plonks a pie on the table.

“They were out of apple, so you get cherry,” Tina says.

“Ooh, my favorite!” Queenie laughs with a delight that’s hardly proportional to pie. She stands and takes her sister’s hand. “Thanks for the lunch, boys. I can’t wait to do this again. Credence, owl me. Even if these workaholic stiffs are busy, you and I can go do something.”

Credence and Graves watch as she drags Tina through the restaurant, obviously in a hurry.

“Um, bye?” Tina calls.

“Come on, Teenie. I gotta talk to yous,” Queenie whispers.

As the bell over the door dings to mark their exit, Graves raises one eyebrow. “What in Merlin’s name was that about?”

“I have no idea,” Credence says slowly.

He accompanies Graves back to the apartment in a daze. He wonders about Queenie’s strange behavior and still more about why she seemed to be encouraging his feelings for Graves. Because that’s what she was doing-- there’s no other reason for her to dispel his fears.

He goes about making ready for bed, his thought tumbling in endless circles. Queenie is a legilimens, and even if she can’t read Graves’s mind, there’s no telling what she’s heard from the minds of others.

Credence finds himself once more ending the night on the couch next to Graves, the radio a low hum in the background. At his request Graves left it on wizarding talk radio. It fascinates Credence endlessly, all the talk of magical politics and international affairs.

A knock rings out from the front door.

Confusion crosses Grave’s face as he looks up from his book. “I don’t have many visitors this late. At least not ones who have to knock,” he says.

For some reason Credence tenses. He doesn’t know why, but he has a bad feeling.

Before he can speak up, Graves stands, crossing to the door with four long strides. He looks through the peephole, and the expression of calm curiosity slips from his face to be replaced with one of pained indigestion. He presses his palm to the wood of the door and lets out a long breath.

“What’s wrong?” Credence asks, on edge.

“Not to worry; there’s no danger,” Graves says. “Though you might want to leave the room for this.”

The bad feeling hardens into lead in the pit of Credence’s stomach. “Why?”

Before Graves has a chance to answer, the door opens from the outside to reveal a tall, broad shouldered man with unkempt red hair. He’s taller than Graves by a couple inches, and his soot-covered clothes are those of a blue-collar worker.

“Ya always were bad about using the same locking spell,” the man says in a thick street accent-- the kind he himself developed during his time at the orphanage, Credence realizes; the kind his Ma beat out of him.

Instead of answering, Graves simply says, “Leave.”

“Oh, come on, Percy,” the man whines. He’s is drunk, Credence realizes. He sways where he stands, a placid half-smile on his stubbled face.

“I said _leave_ , Ian,” Graves says slowly, more dangerous than Credence has ever heard him sound.

The man folds his corded arms over his chest. “Ya seemed happy enough to see me last time I turned up.”

Credence knows he’s missing something, knows there’s something passing between the men under the words. He can feel the subtext, but he can’t quite parse its meaning. He knows he should take Graves’s warning, should leave and not overhear a conversation not meant for him, but his unease still lingers, and something between curiosity and protectiveness keeps him seated.

Graves’s determination falters. “And when was ‘last time’, exactly?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

A slimy smirk crosses Ian’s face. “Forgotten already? Four months ago you let me right in.”

Graves laughs bitterly, and Credence doesn’t need to wonder why. Four months ago, Credence had still been living at the New Salem Church, and Grindelwald had been coaxing him into gathering information.

“Shelly told me you came into the shop with your son today,” Ian says. “I didn’t believe it for a second. You’re many things, Percy, but stupid enough to fuck a woman and let her get pregnant isn’t one of them.”

“Get out, and never darken my threshold again,” Graves says, colder than Arctic wind. “I told you two years ago, this is finished.”

“So what if I only wanted you for your money,” Ian says, pressing a hand to Graves’s chest. “Let’s be honest, you only wanted someone like me for the sex.”

And like that, the subtext becomes clear as polished crystal. Credence’s breath stops, his whole world narrowing to the pair of men arguing.

“I guess we’ll never know,” Graves says, and there’s something under the words-- hurt or the memory of it.

Ian tries to step into the apartment, but Graves blocks him bodily, one hand braced on the doorframe to stop him. Ian cranes his neck to see around him, and his eyes catch on Credence where he’s trying to go unnoticed. He takes in Credence’s uncomfortable expression.

A sneer twists his lips. “Christ, Percy, a _rentboy_? And here I thought a man like you could manage well enough without.”

Graves’s nostrils flare dangerously. “Credence is a friend, not a rentboy,” he says, all but spits the last word.

“Friend?” Ian snorts disbelievingly. “Well, still a bit younger than your usual rough trade.”

Graves draws his wand pointing it at the man’s chest in a way that’s nothing short of threatening.

“Get. Out.”

Ian laughs. “What’re you gonna do, blow me up then arrest yourself?”

“Stay and find out,” Graves invites, voice deadly soft.

Ian sneers one last time, then disapparates.

Graves closes the door slowly, not turning to look at Credence. “That was Ian Spenton, Shelly’s brother,” he says softly.

Credence stands from the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, betrayed.

Graves sighs. “Credence--”

“No,” Credence says, rage building. “You tell me there’s nothing wrong with me, you tell me I’m not unnatural, but then you hide the same thing about yourself.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Graves says, almost desperate.

Credence barks out a laugh, and there’s nothing nice about it. “And you thought letting me think I was alone was the way to do that?”

“You’re never alone.”

“I’ve been alone for sixteen years!” he shouts.

Every light in the room flickers. Somewhere, something glass shatters. Credence wants Graves to tell him to calm down, wants the chance to disobey. He wants Graves to flinch, to show some sign of fear.

Graves doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he steps closer. “Grindelwald tried to seduce you, tried to do it with _my_ body. He used you in terrible ways and tried to in far worse ones-- all while taking on my form. I never wanted you to be afraid that I would do the same.”

Credence deflates. His anger dissipates as quickly as it came on to be replaced with shame. He’d assumed the worst of Graves even after the man had been nothing but good to him.

“But why?” he asks desperately, not even sure what he’s questioning.

“Because you matter to me,” Graves says. He looks lost, like the words are something foreign.

“Because a man impersonating you used me?” Credence asks desperately.

“At first, yes,” Graves admits. “I felt some responsibility for what he did to you, like maybe if I’d been stronger, I could have stopped him. But now-- now I’ve come to care for you, Credence.”

Graves takes another step forward so he can run his hands over Credence’s shoulders. “You’re so strong, despite your meekness and fear. You look at me like I’m something good, like I’m someone to admire. Sometimes I wish I could see myself through your eyes.”

Credence swallows hard. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Grindelwald impersonated me for nearly a year, and not a single person in my life other than Tina noticed a change,” Graves says softly. “I can only imagine what that says about me-- haven’t been able to stop imagining it since I was freed. But you… you remind me that I’m not him.”

Credence stumbles forward, looping his arms around Graves’s waist and pressing his face to his throat. Like this, he realizes that he’s just barely taller than Graves. He wants to lean up, to kiss him, but he doesn’t. Instead Credence simply clings to him, waiting once more for his world to stop spinning.


	7. Chapter 7

“Do you need me to read it to you?” Graves asks gently, looking at the letter over Credence’s shoulder. It had arrived via floo some twenty minutes earlier as a flapping paper crane.

“Does it say--” Credence starts, squinting at the paper. “Is Mr. Jonker asking if I can come by his shop tomorrow morning?”

“Very good!” A smile blooms across Graves’s face, and he claps Credence proudly on the shoulder. “Now, how about you help me prepare dinner?”

Credence nods enthusiastically. Graves could of course do it all by magic much faster, as he still did many nights, but for some reason he still asks for Credence’s help on nights they aren’t too tired from the day’s lessons. Credence suspects Graves caught on to how uncomfortable his lack of usefulness around the apartment was making him and thus began assigning him simple tasks, ones that wouldn’t overwork him.

Even if it’s charity, Credence appreciates it.

“Chop these, would you?” Graves asks, setting several carrots on the kitchen table along with a knife and cutting board.

Credence puts his back to Graves, mostly so he doesn’t get distracted while wielding the impossibly sharp knife-- goblin made, Graves had said when Credence asked. Its handle is inscribed with runes in what seems to be blue steel, while the blade itself is made of an almost luminescent white metal.

Credence isn’t entirely convinced it was made with the intention of being be a kitchen knife, but he’s too afraid of the answer to ask. Either way, it makes short work of the vegetables. The sounds of Graves preparing soup fill the small kitchen, and Credence resists the urge to look back at him.

The domesticity of the evening is striking, wholly unlike anything Credence has ever experienced. He can hear the swish of Graves’s wand though the air, can imagine the elegant way Graves holds it, one finger bracing it for perfect control.

He finds himself humming as he works, the familiar melody to his mother’s unfamiliar words.

He’s happy, he realizes, and that realization is almost enough to make the knife slip. He’s accepted and well fed and learning magic and safe. Tomorrow he’ll go to Pendragon Square and hopefully be of some use to Mr. Jonker. He’s not sure he can ever remember being so content.

He wishes he could keep this moment forever, the simple act of preparing food together somehow one of the most intimate Credence has ever known. It steals his breath in a way something so simple never should.

“Credence,” Graves starts, curiosity in his voice. “Where did you learn that?”

Credence looks up, making a sound of inquiry.

“The song you’re humming,” Graves elaborates.

Credence blinks, setting the knife aside. “I-- My mother used to sing it-- my real one, I mean.”

Graves smiles fondly. “You never mentioned she was German.”

“What?”

Instead of answering, Graves takes a breath and begins to sing.

His voice is a low, rusty baritone as he sings the words Credence has heard a hundred times in his memory. It’s beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with musical skill. Credence suspects that Graves isn’t the sort of man who lets people hear him sing, and there’s something so special about the gesture, so personal.

Graves’s singing fades, a small smile on his lips. “It’s a wizarding lullaby,” he says softly.

Without conscious thought, Credence takes a step forward, captivated. “What does it mean?”

“ _Little child of the stars, sleep this night in peace, for tonight the unicorn roams our groves and Merlin watches our house,_ ” Graves says. He sways closer, eyes drifting half-closed as he watches Credence. “ _Sleep knowing you are safe, that day follows the darkness and sun follows the rain._ ”

Credence wonders when they ended up so close, Graves’s breath rustling his hair. “It’s beautiful,” he manages.

Graves reaches up to brush the backs of his fingers over Credence’s temple. “It is.” His voice comes out like gravel.

Credence’s heart beats so hard that he has to fight to keep still, to keep from trembling. He know this can’t be what he thinks, but God above, he wants it to be. Guilt gnaws at him like hunger, but it’s not enough to keep him from wanting.

Graves’s hand slowly strokes down his neck, thumb brushing his jaw. He looks dazed, like he’s in a trance.

Credence leans unthinkingly into the touch. It’s so much like how Grindelwald used to touch him, used to try to seduce him, yet nothing at all like it. There’s kindness in Graves’s touch, earnestness-- like Credence is actually something to be entranced by.

“You’re beautiful,” Graves says, low yet terrifyingly gently. His expression is soft, wondrous. He leans in until his nose grazes Credence’s cheek.

Credence can only stand amazed, eyes wide. Graves’s palm is warm on his neck, and his breath comes out in a short gasp, loud in the heavy quiet of the kitchen.

The sound seems to shake Graves from his trance. He takes a blind step back, eyes wide. He puts his back to Credence, bracing himself on the counter. There’s something like regret in the hunched line of his shoulders. He runs a hand down his face and says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Credence takes a tentative step forward, then another. He knows that wasn’t all in his head, knows he couldn’t have been imagining the way Graves was looking at him. He also thinks this might be the first time he’s ever heard Graves apologize.

Something bold and bright sparks in Credence. He doesn’t want Graves to apologize. He wants his hands on him. When Graves touches him, the guilt and sorrow burn away, and something like warmth blooms in his soul. He wants that feeling always, thinks he could forgive his own sins if he had it.

Credence doesn’t let himself think, just moves. He tugs Graves by the shoulder until they’re face to face. Credence has just enough time to register Graves’s look of surprise before he’s leaning up, and all thought ceases.

He presses his lips to Graves’s, graceless and unpracticed.

He’s only done this twice before, in an alley with a man who’d looked just like Graves but controlled the kiss with a ferocity that left Credence no room to argue.

Now, though, Graves is still beneath his kiss, lips parted just so in shock.

Credence flounders for a moment, because he started this, but he has no idea what he’s doing. Then Graves is surging up, and his hands are on either side of Credence face.

Credence finds himself pulled into a kiss that’s just as fierce as any he’s had before, but so much more passionate. As Graves’s lips move against his own, Credence feels something fit into place. That feeling of wrongness every time Grindelwald had kissed him is gone, replaced by a spark of fire.

He winds his arms around Graves’s neck, wanting to feel him as close as possible.

Graves grips the too sharp jut of his hip with one hand, spinning them until the counter digs into Credence’s back. He sucks on Credence’s lower lip, and the sensation sends an electric thrill down Credence’s spine. There’s a desperation in Graves’s kiss, like a drowning man gasping for air. Credence doesn’t think he’s ever felt so wanted, so _needed_.

He thinks in that moment he’d give Graves anything he wants, and it terrifies him. What terrifies him even more is that he _wants_ Graves to asks. He wants to give Graves everything when he’s not even sure what everything is.

Graves pulls away abruptly, almost stumbling. He presses the back of his hand to his lips, not looking at Credence. There’s something like conflict on his face.

Remorse, Credence realizes with a sinking feeling.

“Go take a shower,” Graves says, as if he hadn’t just shown Credence what passion feels like. “Dinner will be ready when you get out.”

“Graves--” Credence starts, pushing off of the counter.

Graves turns away to dig through his desk. “ _Go_ ,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

Credence hovers in the middle of the kitchen, watching as Graves produces a silver cigarette case. He feels confused, bereft and abandoned and painfully exposed. When Graves doesn’t turn to look at him again, he swallows his hurt and heads for the bathroom.

He turns the water as hot as it can go for the first time, and it’s nearly enough to scald him as he steps in. He tilts his face up towards the spray, breathing the rising steam into his lungs, like he can scour the memory of what just passed from mind.

How could he have done that? And how could he have messed it up so quickly? Sure, he has no idea what he’s doing in matters of the physical, but surely Graves couldn't have expected otherwise. He knows he hadn’t imagined the passion in that kiss, the sheer intensity of it. Graves wanted that kiss just as badly as he did.

The memory has him growing hard, and an instinctive shame washes over him. He reaches for the taps to turn the water to cold, but something stops him. Some part of him is angry about what just happened, frustrated by Graves’s lack of explanation.

He takes himself in hand, his grip awkward at first. This isn’t something he does often, only ever in the dead of night with a pillow to muffle his panting. Now, in the brightness of the bathroom, a new thrill goes through him. For once he doesn’t close his eyes; he looks down at his hand on his cock, lets himself revel in the guilt and arousal the sight sends through him.

He thinks of Graves’s hand on his hip pressing him back into the kitchen cabinets, mouth hot against his. It’s not long before he finishes, lungs working for air and fingers pressing into his own hipbone the way Graves’s had. The sound Credence lets out is obscene. He’s never heard himself sound like that, and there’s something freeing in the way it echoes off the bathroom tile.

Despair chases hot on the heels of the pleasure. He bites the skin on the back of his hand to muffle a gasp that wants to be a sob.

He shuts off the water and towels dry, trying to keep his mind blank. The mirror, clouded by steam, shows him an unfamiliar face-- hair falling in waves around his ears, cheeks no longer hollow, eyes frantic with warring emotions. He tries to school his features into something less telling, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

When Credence emerges from the bathroom, Graves is leaning on the windowsill. The window is open, and smoke curls around his head. An untipped cigarette is held in his long fingers, a distant look on his face. He doesn’t appear to have noticed Credence’s return.

From here, Credence can see the wrinkles in his white shirt where his hands had clenched. He watches as he turns the cigarette case over in his hand.

Credence swallows, trying to make his voice work. “I didn’t realize you smoked,” he says.

Graves starts slightly, but doesn’t look at him. “I don’t. Not for five years.”

Credence decides to try his luck. He walks forward until he’s close enough to touch. “Why start back now?”

“Stress. Fear. Old habits, and all that.” Graves takes a long drag before blowing out a breath of smoke. “The no-maj’s are wrong about these things-- they’ll kill you slowly.”

“Then why smoke them?”

“‘ _A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied._ ’ Wilde said that.” Graves takes another drag. “My life is on pause-- has been for over a year. I should have died in that hole, yet here I am. What’re a few less years to me?”

Irritation flares in Credence. He takes the cigarette from between Graves’s fingers and takes a long drag of it himself. His pride fights the cough that immediately follows the inhale. “You’re being maudlin,” he says before stubbing the remainder out in an ashtray already littered with several more.

“You haven’t seen me maudlin, yet,” Graves says. “That requires much more fire whisky than this apartment contains.”

Credence puts his hand on Graves’s shoulder, stroking his thumb over the juncture of his neck. For just a moment, Graves leans into the touch.

He pushes off the windowsill, shrugging off Credence’s grip. “There’s a plate on the counter. Eat,” he says softly, crossing the kitchen to his bedroom door. He hesitates for just a moment in the doorway, then seems to shake it off.

The click of the door closing feels as final as a slam. Graves never shuts his door all the way.

Somehow, Credence manages to eat. Every bite sticks in his throat. Something akin to loss claws at his chest.

He goes to bed with little hope of sleeping.

He’s not sure how long he spends tossing from side to side.

At some point, though, he must fall asleep, because the world fades to a series of distorted dreams.

At first Credence doesn’t know what woke him. He lays still, watching the dancing shadows cast by the fire. A sound breaks the night-- a low, human noise somewhere between a grunt and a groan.

Heat blooms across his face. The sound is guttural, carnal, and Credence is torn between listening and pulling the pillow over his head. Then it comes again, louder this time. Credence bolts up in bed, because that is no sound of pleasure.

His bare feet hit the floor before he takes time to think. The door to Graves’s room stands ajar, and he presses his palm against the wood, hesitating. Another pained sound breaks the night, and Credence doesn’t think anymore.

He pushes into the room and jogs to Graves’s bedside. Graves’s form is just visible in the low light, twisted in the sheets.

“Mr. Graves,” he says hurriedly.

Graves cries out again.

“Graves!” he says, louder this time. He reaches out to shake his heaving shoulder.

Graves jerks awake. Credence has just enough time to see his eyes fly open, panicked, before his world is listing, spinning.

He gasps in surprise as his back hits the mattress. Powerful hands pin his wrists, and a heavy weight bears down on his hips, far from pleasant. It presses into his space, his body, pinning and constraining. Barely visible in the dark, Graves straddles Credence; eyes wild, hair in disarray, and muscles standing in relief

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says once more, and his voice comes out as a hoarse whisper in the darkness.

Graves’s grip slackens. “Credence?”

“It’s me,” he insists.

Graves rolls off of him, his weight on Credence’s hips disappearing as quickly as it came. Winded and startled, Credence glances at the man sprawled on the bed next to him. Graves’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling, and his breath comes in shallow pants.

Credence bites his lip. “Are you--?”

“Fine,” Graves snaps. “I’m _fine_.”

He says it like he wants it to be true, like if he repeats the words enough he will be.

Credence’s fingers venture across the space between their bodies. He reaches, not sure what he’s looking for until he connects with Graves’s wrist. His skin is clammy under the touch, slick with sweat but reassuringly alive.

Graves lets out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Credence doesn’t know what to say to that, isn’t even entirely sure what just happened.

“You weren’t meant to see that.” Graves’s voice wavers, and he clear his throat. “It’s a type of shell-shock, I guess you’d say.”

Credence brushes his fingers over the skin of Graves’s wrist, still at a loss for words. The touch is the only comfort he knows to offer, the only one he’s ever been afforded in the form of Modesty’s worried grasp and Graves’s own gruff hands.

“I have nightmares still,” Graves starts. He moves away from Credence’s touch, and a wash of humiliated rejection threatens to swallow Credence before a warm palm covers his hand. “About the things I saw while chasing that fucker and his followers through Europe, mostly. Some night-- some nights I dream about being back in that hole, no light, nothing but a blank wall to stare at while I stewed in my own filth.”

His hand clenches around Credence’s almost convulsively.

Credence rolls onto his side to look at him, careful to keep their hands connected. Maybe it’s childish, but he doesn’t want to be the one to break the contact. He turns his palm up so he can lace their fingers together, heart racing.

Graves doesn’t look back, dark eyes still trained upwards. Credence presses his face against the sharp jut of his shoulder, a silent comfort.

Graves’s free hand comes up to card through his hair, his touch gentle, nothing like Ma’s harsh grip as she sheered his messy hair _short enough that it wouldn't be an abominable mop._

“You always act like I’m so strong-- some unbreakable hero. My boy, the truth is, you can’t break if you’ve already broken. Broken over and over under the wand of another,” Graves says. He sounds older than Credence has ever heard him.

“That’s what makes you strong,” Credence says, unsure where the words come from. “You held on; you’re still here.”

Graves laughs bitterly. “When you found me, all I wanted was to die. I thought you were one of Grindelwald’s men at first. When I begged you to help me, I meant for you to kill me, not rescue me.”

Fear settles into Credence’s stomach. “You don’t still want-- _that…_ do you?”

“No,” Graves says shortly. “I’m here, and I don’t care to change that anytime soon.”

Credence isn’t sure if it’s appropriate to express his relief, so instead, he scoots closer and slings his free arm around Graves’s middle. That earns him a huff of amused breath. The hand in his hair moves around his shoulders, holding him in a loose embrace.

Credence tries to push aside the yearning bubbling in his chest, the hope that threatens to grow, but wound together as they are, it doesn’t work. It’s pathetic, he thinks-- being so desperate for a man who’s already rejected him.

“I still panic a little every time I’m in the dark. Imagine that-- a grown wizard, head of Magical Law Enforcement no less, being afraid of the dark,” Graves whispers. “I’m sorry, Credence. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For nearly attacking you,” he says, voice thick. “For not being what you want.”

“What I want?” Credence echoes, nerves gripping him. This seems like dangerous territory.

“I see the way you look at me, sometimes. I’m sorry--” Graves takes a shaking breath. “--that I’m not what you thought. I shouldn’t have let it go on this long, but it-- I liked having you look at me that way. I’m sorry for being so weak. It can’t happen, Credence. I’m twice your age, for Merlin’s sake.”

Credence’s thoughts spin in a dozen different directions. Nowhere in that did Graves say that he doesn’t want Credence, too.

“Y-you have nothing to apologize for,” Credence says. “There’s not some-- some pedestal hero version of you that you have to live up to. I don’t-- I want--”

Credence’s fist clenches in Graves’s nightshirt as he searches for the right words. Graves stays quiet, giving him time to collect his thoughts.

Finally, Credence speaks, fear and nerves making every moment feel too sharp. “I want you, not the idea of you, not an imitation of you-- just you. I know… I know that’s not something I have the right to ask for, not after everything you’ve given me. I have nothing to offer, _am_ nothing to offer, but-- but I know that it’s you I want, even though I’ve tried not to.”

Graves doesn't answer, doesn’t give Credence anything to raise or dispel his foolish hopes. Instead, he says, “Sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

There, lying in Grave’s arms, he knows he’ll do no such thing. He can feel Graves’s body heat warming him, but he’s too tense to enjoy it. He lays in silence, wishing Graves would fall back asleep so he could leave.

For the first time, he’s not sure he wants to be here, not when Graves’s words feel as good as a dismissal and his heart is threatening to tear in two.

“Credence,” Graves says, breaking the silence. “You said that you’re nothing. That-- that is so far from the truth. Somehow you’re becoming everything, at least to me. And I can’t-- I’m not good for you.”

That isn’t a no, Credence realizes. It’s not a rejection. It’s Graves denying what he wants, something Credence is more than familiar with.

He says nothing in return, only shifts until he can press his lips to the stubbled skin of Graves’s neck in an unsure kiss.

Graves draws a sharp breath, but doesn’t protest.

At some point, Credence falls into an uneasy sleep, waking every little bit to find that Graves is still beside him.

His dreams are full of shadows, shadows that chase not him for once but rather Graves.

When dawn at last breaks, he feels Graves carefully disentangle himself, unaware that his companion is already awake. Credence lies in bed and listens as he goes to take a shower. He pushes himself from the bed, eyes too bleary to bother making out the time.

Credence goes about making coffee. He sets two mugs on the kitchen table, then takes a seat to wait.

His head still spins from last night. He has no idea what a man like Mr. Graves-- so cunning, skilled, and sophisticated-- could see in him. He meant what he said the night before; he has nothing to offer.

At least with the imposter Mr. Graves, he’d been fooled into thinking he was special in some desirable way. Now, he knows the only special thing about him is the demon that lurks beneath the surface.

When Graves emerges from the bathroom, hair still damp, he looks at Credence in surprise.

“You’re up early,” he says.

“Restless sleep,” Credence answers. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“I suppose there’s no getting around discussing last night.” Graves sighs and sits opposite him at the small table.

“I need to know what’s going on,” Credence says. “I-- You know how I f-feel towards you. And I thought-- I thought there was no way you could feel the same, but-- yesterday evening-- last night--”

“Last night I could have seriously hurt you,” Graves says harshly. “Last night we both got lucky that I didn’t grab my wand.”

“And?” Credence challenges. “I’m still an obscurus; learning a little bit of magic hasn’t changed that. And yet here you are, risking your life by keeping me under your roof.”

“It’s not the same,” Graves says, staring into his untouched mug of coffee.

“How?” Credence challenges. “How? We can both be dangerous because of terrible things we had done to us.”

“Have you looked at your wrists this morning?” Graves asks softly.

Unbidden, Credence’s gaze drifts downwards. Purple bruises circle both wrists like shadow bracelets.

“I promised I would never hurt you, Credence. That’s how it’s different,” Graves says, expression unreadable.

“I think maybe you care about me r-romantically. I don’t know how or why, but I felt the way you kissed me yesterday, and I saw the way you looked at me last night,” Credence says softly. He nervously taps his fingers against his coffee mug, thinking. “I know what lust alone looks like and how it feels. That’s how h-he used to look at me, sometimes-- just lust with nothing under it, no caring, no other emotion. Last night wasn’t that.”

“It’s easy to hurt those you care about most.” Graves looks up, meeting Credence’s gaze. “It would be so easy for me to hurt you, in so many ways. You’re so young, so-- _good_. You’ve been hurt too many times for me to risk that.”

“You’re a good man,” Credence says, almost desperately. He can see his chance slipping, but he doesn’t know how to put his thoughts into words, is too new to speaking his mind. Graves could never hurt him the way Ma or Grindelwald did, and he wonders why he can’t see that.

“I’m a fair man and a man of the law,” Graves says. “There’s a difference.”

Credence swallows hard and decides to take a chance. “I think-- I think you want me, too.”

“We’re not doing this, Credence,” Graves says. “There are too many reasons it’s an awful idea, what I want aside.”

Hurt wells up in Credence. Even if he knows it’s not true, some dark part of him whispers that he’s the reason. He’s still a monster, somewhere under the surface. He let himself fall into the arms of a very different kind of monster, and now Graves looks at him and sees his weakness.

Credence stands, shaking the thoughts. Whatever the reasons for Graves’s refusal, he can’t be here right now. “I’ve got to go meet Mr. Jonker,” he says.

“Do you need me to--” Graves gestures awkwardly at the fireplace.

“I think I have it, thank you,” Credence says almost icily as he crosses the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees Graves flinch. He pushes down his guilt and resolutely grabs a handful of floo powder.

“Jonker’s Wands,” he says, stepping into the flames. Just before the spinning green swallows him, he catches sight of Graves at the kitchen table, face in his hands. He emerges moments later into the dusty front hall of the shop.

Mr. Jonker looks up over the top of his glasses. “Credence, dear boy, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. There was no need to get up early on my account.”

Credence flushes. He hadn’t even checked the time before leaving. “If I’m too early, I can come back later,” he says apologetically.

“No need, no need,” Mr. Jonker says, coming around the counter to peer up at Credence. He’s shorter than Credence by at least six inches, Credence realizes. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

Credence opens his mouth, them hesitates, not wanting to lie. “I’m fine,” he says instead.

Mr. Jonker tisks. “I’ll take that to mean you haven’t. Come, come.” He motions for Credence to follow him through to his office.

“What were you needing my help with?” Credence asks. When Mr. Jonker flaps his hand at an overstuffed couch, he awkwardly takes a seat.

“Take a muffin, take a muffin,” he insists, levitating a tray full to perch on the arm of the couch. “Now, the reason why you’re here. Let us see. Today I mostly have a few questions for you, and I thought it easier to do so in person.”

Credence furrows his brow, swallowing his bite of muffin. “Questions about what?”

“I have a theory that some wizards are naturally more adept at wandless magic than others, and that consequently, it’s more difficult to find appropriate wands for those wizards-- wands that bond with them, so to speak,” Mr. Jonker explains. “For wizards bonded to a wand, the loss or breakage of a wand, particularly their first one, is much like the loss of a limb.”

Credence nods slowly in understanding.

“For instance, the witches and wizards of Uagadou School of Magic perform the bulk of their magic without wands. They use them on occasion simply as tools, but rarely find a wand they viscerally connect with.” Mr. Jonker looks down at a sheaf of notes. “I’m sure this is partially because since wands are of European tool, there are few wand makers in Africa, and fewer still who specialize in the peculiar combinations my theory suggests those prone to wandless need.”

“I’ve seen other wizards perform wandless magic, though,” Credence says.

“You are speaking, of course, of Percival,” Mr. Jonker says with a nod. “Some powerful wizards can learn to control their wandless magic, but it takes years of practice. It likely takes every ounce of his focus to do something as simple as summoning an object from across the room.”

Credence spreads his hands helplessly. He’s barely even competent at magic, much less skilled at something so advanced.

“Now, tell me,” Mr. Jonker says. “How is your wand working?”

Credence blinks. “Good, I suppose. I’m slowly learning magic.”

Mr. Jonker hums considering. “No abnormal incidents? No larger than average explosions or unusual transfigurations?”

Credence shakes his head, then pauses. “Well, I tied a spoon into a bow rather than levitating it, but Graves didn’t seem to think it was unusual.”

A pang of despair washes over him as he says then name. Graves, who he’d left sitting in the kitchen. He should have pressed him, but he hadn’t been brave enough. He wishes he’s had the strength to say all the things he’d wanted to, to tell Graves about the warmth that burns in his chest.

Mr. Jonker gives another hum, drawing Credence’s attention, and scratches down a note in a battered notebook. He licks his lips and asks, “Have you any aptitude for wandless magic?”

“I-I’ve never done any,” Credence stammers.

“Every wizard has done wandless magic at some point in his life, be it as a unschooled child or as an angry adult.”

Credence shakes his head. “I wasn’t allowed.”

Concern crosses the older man’s face. “It’s hardly a matter of being allowed, my boy.”

Credence shifts uncomfortably, then says, “I don’t know how much help I’ll be to you, sir. I didn’t know that I-- that I was magic until less than two months ago.”

Mr. Jonker closes his notebook, setting it aside and leaning back against his desk, arms braced. In that moment, Credence can see the young man he used to be lurking under his posture. “I suppose that would go some ways towards explaining why you’re living with Percival. I simply assumed the pair of you were lovers.”

Heat rises in Credence’s face. “I-- no. No.”

“It’s no business of mine either way. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll find small things like social taboos carry little meaning.” Mr. Jonker waives his hand airily as if setting the topic aside. “As I was saying, though. I take it your living with Percival is related to the obscurus attack on Manhattan?”

Credence freezes, fear settling into the pit of his stomach. He’s not a fool; he knows there’s a reason Graves never mentions his condition to other wizards. He still has hazy memories of a dozen wizards raising their wands against him.

“I can go,” he says, and his voice comes out weak, timid for the first time in a long time.

“No need, no need,” Mr. Jonker says gently. “Whatever happened in your past is of no concern to me. All that matters is that you’re here and that it seems to have given you an aptitude for wandless magic.”

“You keep saying that,” Credence says. “But I told you, I’ve never done wandless magic. I don’t think I can help you.”

Mr. Jonker wheezes out a laugh. “My dear boy, the very nature of an obscurus is a manifestation of wandless magic.”

Credence shakes his head hard enough to make himself dizzy. “I can’t use it. I won’t. It hurts people.”

Mr. Jonker holds up his quill. “Summon the quill.” Credence reaches for his pocket, but Mr. Jonker says, “Without your wand.”

“I can’t,” Credence protests, something like panic rising in his chest.

“Try.”

Almost unbidden, Credence’s eyes focus on the feather quill. He reaches for that _something_ that lies just under the surface of his conscience, forever threatening to bubble over. The power extends towards the quill like an extra limb.

The quill rises out of Mr. Jonker’s hand and zooms towards Credence almost too fast for him to catch.

Credence stares at it in shock, and Mr. Jonker gives him a smug smile. He claps his hands together. “Now, time to get down to business.”

The next two hours are a blur of questions and trying out innumerable wands.

The wands are one-off tests, some with wampus cat hair and some without. Mr. Jonker explains the significance of each wood and core as they work.

Still, Credence’s thought keep drifting back to Graves few minutes. He can’t shake that last lingering image of Graves’s face, crumple in despair.

“You are preoccupied, dear boy,” Mr. Jonker says.

“I-I’m sorry,” Credence says, looking down. “Something happened just before I arrived.”

“Mmm,” Mr. Jonker hums as if in understanding. “Affairs of the heart, always troublesome.”

Credence blinks.

The older man looks down at his folded hands, something like wistfulness on his face. “Most all have been there. Remember, dear boy: Your head may know best, but your heart knows where happiness lies.”

“I’ve got to go,” Credence blurts, standing. “May I use your fireplace?”

“Please,” Mr. Jonker says, looking bemused. “Be my guest.”

Credence scoops a handful of powder from the jar on the mantle. The grate flares to life with green flames, and Credence says Graves’s home address.

He all but runs out of the fireplace on the other end, not caring for once if he tracks ash into the living room. He rounds the corner to the kitchen at a jog.

He doesn’t know what he plans to say. All he knows is that Graves wants him, too, and for the first time in his life Credence thinks he’s found something he’s willing to fight for.

Graves still sits at the table, head in his hands. He looks as if he hasn’t moved since Credence left.

“I don’t care,” Credence blurts.

Graves looks up. “What?”

“I don’t care. If-- if you really want me, I don’t care about any of it,” Credence says, breathless. “You don’t get to decide for me that we shouldn’t because I might get hurt. We both might get hurt, but I think-- I think it’s worth the risk.”

“Credence--” Graves starts, a mixture of fatigue and reluctant hope on his face.

“Don’t say ‘we can’t’ again,” Credence says. “Just-- if I’m out of line… if I’ve misread this, just tell me, and I won’t bring it up again. B-but if by some miracle you actually want me back--”

He breaks off, unsure if he should finish that sentence. His fists clench and unclench at his side. He steels his courage and takes a deep breath. “I-- I think I might-- might love you-- be _in_ love with you.”

Credence squeezes his eyes shut. He knows what the warmth growing in his chest has been. He’s known for some time, but he hadn’t known how to believe it. Ma had always said people like him were incapable of real love.

Now, though, he knows the truth, can feel inside him like a magic all its own.

Still, he can’t open his eyes, can’t bear to see Graves’s response to the admission. Maybe he doesn’t believe in such things. Maybe he thinks it unbecoming for men to confess them to one another. Maybe he’s made uncomfortable by such words coming from Credence.

A hand brushes his cheek, and Credence’s eyes flutter open. Graves is looking at him, a soft expression on his face. “What you’re suggesting won’t be easy,” he says.

“I don’t care,” Credence repeats. “None of this has been easy, but at least this would be worth it. I don’t want to cause you trouble but--”

This time, it’s Graves who kisses him. He leans in slowly, projecting every movement so Credence has time to move away. He doesn’t, of course.

The kiss is gentler, less fierce but still with all the passion.

“You’re worth any trouble,” Graves breathes against his lips before moving in for another kiss.

His hands slip into Credence’s hair, tilting his head just so. He deepens the kiss, tongue wet against the seam of Credence’s mouth, and Credence gasps. The sensation is so new, so unbearably intimate. Graves guides him to open his mouth further until their tongues can tangle.

A noise of pleasure escapes Credence, and it’s embarrassingly wanton. One of Graves’s hands winds around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer with a hand to his lower back.

Credence’s hips press against Graves’s thigh, and he knows there’s no mistaking the hardness in his trousers.

“Sorry,” Credence whispers, breaking the kiss.

Graves tenderly kisses down Credence’s neck in an unbroken line. “Don’t apologize.”

Credence finds himself tilting his head back to give him better access as his arms grip Graves’s shoulders for support, like he might just drown if he lets go. He feels so happy, so warm, and yet so overwhelmed.

Graves must sense something of those feelings, because he moves away just slightly, pressing a slow final kiss to Credence’s cheek.

“Can I ask you something?” he starts. When Credence nods, unable to form words, he asks. “Am I the only person you’ve kissed other than, well...?”

Credence’s grip tightens ever so slightly. “If I say yes, are you stop doing it?”

“I don’t think I could unless you asked me to,” Graves admits.

He takes Credence’s hand, brushing his thumb over his pulse point. He brings it to his mouth, kisses the thin skin at his wrist where blue veins spread like a lightning strike.

“Then yes,” Credence breathes. There’s something in the gentle gesture that makes his breath catch.

“Good,” Graves says, something that might be guilt in his voice. He pulls Credence against him, and Credence sags into the contact, burying his face to Graves’s neck. They stay like that for a long time, and Credence realizes that this time he doesn’t want his world to quit spinning.


	8. Chapter 8

Credence can hardly believe that this is really his life. He lives with an almost permanent fear of waking up, of finding out that all of this has been a glorious dream and that he’s actually asleep on the thin cot of his old attic room.

Not much has changed about his life with Graves over the week since their first kiss, except now Credence finds that when they settle onto the couch at night he’s permitted to snuggle into Graves’s side. Graves always smiles fondly, looping an arm around Credence’s shoulders. When he gets brave enough, he’s even allowed to lean up for a tentative kiss.

He’s rarely brave enough.

He still can’t seem to believe that this is something he’s allowed to have. Some part of him is still afraid that it’s a joke or a dream or that he’ll be rebuffed with disgust at any given moment. It’s almost always Graves who initiates everything-- Graves, who pulls Credence into deep kisses; Graves, who runs light hands over Credence’s chest.

Graves, who even now loops his arms around Credence’s waist and leans into Credence’s back, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of his neck.

Credence doesn’t jump, knowing that there’s only one person who ever touches him so carefully. “Good morning,” he says, tilting his head back against Graves’s shoulder. He splays his hands on the kitchen table to keep his balance, abandoning his open book.

“Morning,” Graves says, his voice gravelly from sleep. “You’re up early. More nightmares?”

Credence hums in assent. “I thought I’d practice my reading until you got up.”

“Standing at the kitchen table?” Graves says, amusement lacing his voice.

“It’s a very interesting book,” Credence says. He tips the cover shut so Graves can see the title, _Wand Lore & Magical Channeling_.

“Mr. Jonker gave you that? He seems to be rather fond of you.”

Credence nods. “He sent it by owl this morning. I guess he doesn’t know I can’t read.”

That earns him a huff of laughter that ghosts across his ear. “You seem to be doing a pretty good job, from what I saw,” Graves says.

Credence rolls his eyes. It’s the first time he’s made the gesture in years; Ma would have beat him bloody if she’d seen it. “I’ve been trying to read it for two hours, and I’m barely six pages in.”

“That’s still progress, Credence. Remember that,” Graves says.

He unwinds himself from Credence, and Credence has to fight the urge to chase his warmth. He’s been doing his best not to be too clingy. A man like Graves, fond of his privacy and silence, probably wouldn’t appreciate Credence clinging to him like a sad puppy.

“Oh,” Graves says, as if remembering something. “Goldstein might be stopping by today to drop something off. I told her that if she brought her sister, we could all go out for lunch.”

“Queenie might be coming?” Credence asks, perking up.

A smile ghosts across Graves’s lips. “I thought that would make you happy. You two seemed to get on well.”

A thought occurs to Credence. He hesitates, not sure if he should voice it. Finally, he says, “Can I ask you something? It-- it’s kind of personal.”

Graves gives him an indulgent look. “I think you’ve earned the right to ask me personal questions.”

“Queenie-- she mentioned something to me before. She said, well.” Credence clears his throat. “She said you’re not on good terms with your father, because-- because of your sister.”

“No, I’m not,” Graves agrees. “That’s probably one of the worst kept secret in all of MACUSA.”

“So it doesn’t bother you that I know?” Credence asks. He’s felt some guilt for knowing something about Graves that the man might not wish him to, like he’d somehow betrayed his trust.

“I’m not ashamed of what I did,” Graves says, turning to look at Credence. “Yes, I broke American wizarding law by allowing her husband to retain memories of magic, but I’m not yet a cruel enough man to break my own sister’s heart by taking away the man she loves.”

“So you sent them to England?”

Graves nods, something sad in his eyes. “I knew I couldn’t protect them for much longer, not from the reach of the law and especially not from Father’s wrath. So, I converted some money to galleons for them and bought them tickets to England where they would at least be protected by the law.”

“What do you mean, protect them from your father?” Credence asks.

Graves sighs and says, “My father is not a kind man. He holds prejudices considered archaic even in his own time-- wealth allows one to get away with such things-- and I feared that he would kill the no-maj if he found out.”

The statement seems so bland, so unremarkable to Graves that Credence has to stop himself from taking a step back.

“Merlin only knows what he would have done to my sister, and I decided I didn’t want to find out,” Graves continues. His voice is monotone, detached-- as though thinking about it too closely hurts. “We hadn’t been on good terms since I refused the engagement he set up for me, so I had nothing to lose. He’s never approves of my marital status-- confirmed bachelor, I think the phrase goes-- but no matter how much he despises me, he needs a male heir.”

Credence worries his lip, not sure what the proper response is. Thankfully, Graves saves him from having to come up with one.

“I hope you meet her one day-- my sister,” Graves says. “Her name is Ruth. She’s-- well, I don’t have the right words to describe her. She’s stubborn and skilled but with a heart far kinder than I could ever match. She’s a lot like Ms. Goldstein, in many ways.”

“I’d like that,” Credence says. There’s fondness in the way Graves speaks about his sister, fondness and a touch of wistfulness. “If-- if you don’t mind me asking, how come you don’t talk about her more?”

Graves looks up, meeting Credence’s gaze. Something sad lurks just under his eyes, memories long since buried.

“My sister and I didn’t have the most pleasant of childhoods,” he says slowly. “Nothing compared to yours, of course, but terrible in its own way-- cold and isolated. Sometimes neglect and apathy can be almost as bad as a raised fist.”

Credence shakes his head. “‘Comparing suffering does nobody any good.’ That’s what Chastity used to always tell me. Pain is still pain, no matter where it comes from.”

Graves makes a noncommittal noise. “Still, there’s no use in my whining to you about my past. It’s done.”

Credence wants Graves to understand, wants him to know that whatever he went through, Credence will always listen. He takes a steadying breath and says, “Ma never beat Chastity, not like she beat me, but Chastity got it just as bad as I did. Ma was always telling her that she was ugly, that she’d better devote herself to the church, because no decent man would ever have her.”

Credence shakes his head before continuing, “Like she always said, there’s no use comparing pain, but I know the things Ma said hurt her. I think-- I think Ma knew what she was doing. Chastity was beautiful; she could have easily found a husband to take her away from the church. I think it was Ma’s words that held her back, not religious devotion. Just because it’s words instead of hands doesn’t make the cuts not hurt.”

Graves visibly swallows. “Can I ask you something now? Why did you stay?”

“For Modesty,” Credence says without hesitation. “I’m not sure what I would have done if they’d sent her to a children’s home after I-- after Ma died. I think-- I think I might have rejected all of this, just for her.”

“Then it’s a very good thing your older sister took her in,” Graves says, concern on his face.

“There was-- I felt bound by my own emotions, too. I felt so much guilt all the time, and I thought of serving the church as my penance. And I guess I also felt like I needed to repay Ma for taking me from the orphans’ home. I didn’t know where else I’d go, but mostly I stayed for Modesty. She would have gotten Ma’s wrath if I hadn’t been there.”

A pained expression crosses Graves’s face. “Credence,” he starts. “You know you never have to be with me romantically out of obligation, right? You owe me nothing.”

Credence smiles. “I’d say I owe you rather a lot more than nothing. But no, I won’t. I never want to be a burden, no matter what, and doing that would only cause you guilt if you found out.”

“You have such an interesting way of looking at the world,” Graves says, fondness in his voice.

Credence doesn’t know how to respond to that. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unable to come up with a good answer. Finally, he asks, simply to fill the silence, “How long has it been since you’ve seen your sister?”

Graves sighs. He braces himself on the back of a kitchen chair, not quite looking at Credence. “The last time I saw her was when she boarded a boat to England five years ago.”

“That’s a long time,” Credence says unnecessarily.

“I guess it would be for you; it’s over a fourth of your life,” Graves says, looking down at his folded wrists. “I’ve spent the past decade too absorbed in work to care much for my personal life, both familial and romantic. I see now that that was a mistake, but I suppose-- well.”

In that moment, Graves looks older than Credence has ever seen him. The lines around his eyes are drawn tight, and somehow the grey in his hair appears more pronounced than ever.

“You can’t get hurt if you have nothing to lose,” Credence says quietly.

“Yes, I guess that would be the best way of putting it,” Graves says slowly. “As cliché as it might be, I suppose I thought that no one could hurt me again if I didn’t care. I thought of myself as stronger than that, above such weaknesses.” He pauses, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s stunning how good I was at lying to myself.”

“You’re not a man who can escape caring for people,” Credence says, because he knows it’s true. He’s seen it in the gentle brush of Graves’s hand and the firm insistence on food and a hot shower. Graves cares, no matter how much he’d like to tell himself otherwise.

“Apparently I’m not as cold-hearted as I like to think of myself.” Graves agrees, tilting his head with a sad smile. “For good or for ill, I have an undeniable mother hen instinct. There are days at work where I used to feel like I was redirecting that instinct to all of wizarding America.”

The pulls a surprised laugh from Credence. “I can imagine it,” he says. He gets the sudden mental image of Graves clucking over trainee aurors and berating their superiors for taking dangerous risks.

“The man who came to the apartment, Ian,” Graves starts, voice tight. “Even though I knew better, I let myself care about him. I knew I was just a meal ticket for him, but I-- I let myself imagine otherwise. I wanted to care again, but I picked the wrong person.”

Credence remains silent, at a loss for what to say. For all that he knows Graves cares, Graves rarely opens up like this. He’s not the sort to talk about his emotions unnecessarily or let others know what’s going on in his head.

“Never think that that’s all you are to me,” Credence says, voice firm. “I don’t care if I have to live on the street again to prove it.”

“I know. You’re nothing like him.” Graves runs a hand over his chin, scraping against the stubble he has yet to shave. “People like us-- homosexuals-- it’s hard for us to hold down relationships. Not by any in-built failing, mind, but because of the world we’re forced to live in.”

“I thought it wasn’t a crime for wizards,” Credence says.

Graves lets out a tired sigh, as if years of experience are weighing on his shoulders. He moves towards the living room, motioning for Credence to follow.

“It isn’t, but that doesn’t take away prejudice,” Graves says. He lowers himself into the armchair, as if the conversation has drained him of all energy. “Your landlord can still kick you out for living with another man. Your friends can still give you concerned looks and suggest ‘cures’ they’ve read about. Your job will suddenly have a distinct lack of promotions. Secrecy is still a price we have to pay.”

Something heavy settles into the pit of Credence’s stomach. He wonders what that means for them-- he and Graves-- once this sabbatical of peace is over. Will Graves move on as if it never happened, as though the whole affair was simply a pleasant dream? Or will some misguided loyalty keep him at Credence’s side, costing him the career he’s worked his entire life to build?

The worries press on Credence from all sides, stifling his ability to think.

“Does that mean that this has to end once you return to work?” he asks, because he needs to know.

Graves’s eyes widen. “No, no, my boy. That’s not what I mean. I mean that you’re so young; you’re not yet jaded by that world. Despite everything you’ve been through, you still don’t see relationships in terms of what you can gain.”

“But will it--” Credence swallows past the tightness in his throat. He stands close enough that his knees brush the older man’s. “Will staying with me hurt your career?”

“No, I don’t think so. The higher tiers of MACUSA are staffed by people with all sorts of intercessions to their names,” Graves says slowly. “But damn it all, I don’t care what it costs me to keep you by my side. I have something good now, something worth protecting, and as long as you’ll have me, I’m not letting that go.”

He holds out a hand, an invitation as much as it is a request.

Credence takes it, allowing himself to be pulled towards him. Graves puts a hand on the back of his neck, leading him down into a soft kiss that rapidly gains speed. Credence clutches the back of the chair for support, his other hand smoothing down the thin fabric of Graves’s shirt.

One of Grave’s palms traces the curve of his back, coming to rest just at the swell of his ass. A shiver runs through Credence. Graves breaks the kiss to hold his gaze, eyes searching, and Credence nods ever so slightly. Graves’s free hand moves to mirror the other, his touch tantalizingly warm through the fabric of Credence’s slacks.

“Come here,” Graves murmurs, and before Credence has a chance to wonder what he means, Graves uses his grip to pull him onto his lap. Credence finds himself straddling the older man, knees bracketing his hips.

He feels ungainly perched like this, limbs too long and balance off, but the sensation of being pressed closer than he’s ever been to another person sweeps it from his mind.

The hard line of Graves’s arousal presses into his thigh like a brand, and Credence can’t help a small gasp at the sensation.

“Okay?” Graves asks, concern furrowing his brow.

Credence nods, unable to speak. He winds his arms around Graves’s shoulders and clings as though it will help him catch his breath. He buries his face against Graves’s neck, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he meets. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside out.

Graves holds him impossibly close, one hand circling his shoulders, the other still gripping the flesh of his ass. His fingers knead gently, and it’s enough to make Credence’s hips buck.

“S-sorry,” he stammers.

“Shh, no apologizing,” Graves says, sounding breathless. “Take what you want. It’s alright.”

Credence obeys. He leans to recapture Graves’s mouth, tangling their tongues. All of it-- every touch, every sensation-- is new enough to make his hands tremble. He feels like he’s running over uneven ground in the dark, but he knows Graves will catch him if he falls. He trusts Graves, knows he won’t push for things Credence isn’t ready for.

And that very knowledge makes Credence want to push-- makes him want to discover all the pleasures that have been forbidden his entire life.

Graves shifts his hips ever so slightly, and then the line of his cock is right there alongside Credence’s.

He can’t help the buck of his hips and isn’t even sure he wants to. Graves makes a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, and his hips rock to meet Credence’s.

Their movements stutter for several moments, out of time. When they finally find a rhythm, it’s better than anything Credence has ever felt. He never knew his body could be the source of such pleasure.

An unfamiliar sound tears from Credence’s lips, and he presses his face to Graves’s shoulder until his labored breathing is muffled.

“Look at me,” Graves says, shrugging the shoulder Credence’s face is buried in.

Reluctantly, Credence does. Graves’s lips are parted in pleasure, and his eyelids are heavy. There’s such heat in his gaze that Credence has to fight the urge to hide his face again. He can’t imagine what picture he must make-- surely not a good one. He can feel the sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead and the flush against his too pale skin.

“That’s it,” Graves gasps, eyes tracking over every detail of the face Credence longs to hide. “So fucking beautiful.”

The praise as much as the curse makes heat burn in Credence’s stomach. He can’t imagine what Graves sees to call beautiful, but the next rock of his hips doesn’t leave any room for self-consciousness in his mind.

“Look at you. No one’s ever gotten to see how beautiful you are like this before, just me.” The words tumble from Graves like he’s barely aware of what he’s saying.

Credence can’t tell if he loves or hates the words falling from Graves’s lips, only knows that they send another wave of heat burning through him. He wishes he could find something to say in response, but all words have fled him. It feels so blissfully selfish, taking Graves’s praise with nothing to give in return.

The intimacy simultaneously makes him want to hide and never let go.

All Credence can do is hold on, riding ever twist and buck of Graves’s hips as he stares into his lust-blown eyes. Under the lust, however, there’s an undeniable warmth, an affection that Credence can hardly believe is directed at him.

The pleasure builds rapidly in Credence’s gut. He clings to Graves, not wanting to stop but terrified to tumble over the edge. His hand clenches the fabric of Graves’s shirt, and that must be enough of a tell, because Graves whispers hoarsely, “That’s it. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You can let go.”

“Graves,” Credence gasps. Then he’s spilling hot and blindingly hard against the pressure of Graves’s hips. He bits his lip, trying not to embarrass himself with pitiful whimpers as he comes down.

Graves runs his thumb over Credence’s abused lower lip, pulling it from his teeth. “No need to be quiet. You sound gorgeous, and there’s no one but me to hear.”

Credence’s breath stutters out in a low moan as Graves pulls him into a slow, deep kiss. Only when Graves pulls back, pupils still blown with lust, does Credence register that he’s the only one who finished.

He looks down with some concern. “You didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” Graves dismissed. “I’ll take care of it later. It was enough just to watch you come.”

A blush rises in Credence’s cheeks, but he resolutely ignores it. “I want you to,” he says.

“Want me to what?” Graves says, a teasing note in his voice.

Credence steals his courage and forces the words out. “I want you to come, too. I want to make you come,” he says breathlessly, unable to believe the words falling from his lips. He knows he has to be an impossible shade of red.

Graves brushes his fingers over Credence’s cheek. “Does sound cruel if I say that I love making you blush?”

Credence doesn’t answer. Instead, he fumbles inexpertly with Graves’s belt and fly.

Large hands move to halt his attempts. Graves brings his hand up to his lips, kissing Credence’s palm gently. “You really don’t have to. It’s alright,” he says, his words ghosting over Credence’s skin.

“I really want to,” Credence says, then hesitates. “If-- if that’s alright.”

“More than alright.”

Graves guides his hand back down to the bulge in his trousers, pressing Credence’s palm to it with a gentle yet firm pressure. Credence’s fingers trace over the tented fabric, exploring even as nerves cause his hands to shake. Graves is patient, allowing him to touch and discover at his own pace.

After a minute of fumbling, Credence manages to undo Graves’s fly. He’s painfully aware of Graves’s eyes on him as he dips his fingers below layers of fabric and can’t help a small gasp as he encounters first coarse hair then the silken warmth of Graves’s cock.

Graves lets out a low groan as Credence’s inexpert hand closes around him. Credence strokes him once, twice in the confines of his pants before taking a deep breath and drawing him out.

Credence’s gaze lingers, his breath catching in his chest as a new wave of arousal hits him. He’s never seen another man like this, hard and wanting and desperate to be touched. His eyes dart up to meet Graves’s, and he finds the older man watching him with some mix of concern and fondness.

Credence is thankful that he doesn’t offer for them to stop again, because Credence thinks the smallest word could off-balance his courage.

He begins stroking, watching the way the flushed head disappears beneath his pale fingers. The angle is awkward, and the movements are still fairly unfamiliar to Credence. Even with Graves reminding him that he doesn’t have to live like an ascetic, this is a pleasure he rarely allows himself.

Graves wraps his larger hand around Credence’s, adjusting his grip and speed. He moans, and it echoes loud in the quiet of the room.

“So fucking good,” he breathes. “Oh, you’re so perfect Credence. My Credence. My boy.”

Credence tightens his hand just so at the words, and with a moaned “ _Credence_ ” Graves is coming hot onto his hand. The scent filling the space between them is heady, Graves’s distinct musk mixing with the lingering smell of Credence’s own release.

Graves’s chest heaves with the effort of breathing. His face is loose with pleasure, eyes out of focus and an expression of contented bliss on his features.

Credence slumps bonelessly against him, mind stuttering over what they’ve just done.

Graves holds him close, one hand petting his hair as he presses kisses along the column of his neck, and Credence finds that he doesn’t have the energy for a moral crisis just at that moment. He thinks that perhaps he’s done his fair share of penance and that maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed this.

Dampness seeps into the fabric of his pants, rapidly cooling to the point of discomfort. He shifts his weight, not wanting to move away from Graves, but wishing he could put some distance between his body and the cold mess.

Graves lets out a shaky breath that’s almost a laugh. “I haven’t ruined my clothes like this since, well; it’s been at least a decade.”

Heat suffuses Credence’s face. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the words muffled into Graves’s shoulder.

“We’re wizards; there’s no need to be sorry.”

Before Credence can ask what he means, Graves grabs his wand off of the end table and twirls it in a small spiral. Instantly, the mess vanishes from between them. Graves buttons himself back up before wrapping both arms around Credence. He kisses his temple, affectionate and reassuring.

Credence finds himself wishing he could stay like this forever, warm and safe in Graves’s arms.

He wants to tell Graves that he loves him again, but he’s still unsure how appropriate that is. He doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, not when the moment is so perfect.

Credence feels the rise of Graves’s chest as he draws breath to speak.

“Credence,” Graves says, “I--”

He’s cut off by a loud pop like the crack of a whip.

The pair of them both startle, looking around the apartment for the source of the noise.

There, in the center of the living room, are Tina and Queenie. Queenie looks wholly unsurprised, while Tina’s expression cycles through shock, then confusion, then mortification, then indignation, before finally coming to rest on outrage.

“You goddamned idiots!” she yells.

Graves audibly swallows.


	9. Chapter 9

Credence scuttles backwards until he falls off the chair, landing on his backside. He tries to put some distance between himself and Graves, but the damage is already done. Graves’s usually perfect hair is disheveled, and Credence can feel his lips swollen red, leaving no doubt what the pair of them had been doing.

“You fucking imbeciles!” Tina yells, and it’s the first time Credence has ever heard her swear like that. “Graves, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

Graves stands, drawing himself to his full height. He looks impressive despite his disheveled state. He holds a hand out to Credence, pulling him to his feet. “I’m not playing at anything, Ms. Goldstein.”

“Queenie told me her suspicions, but I assumed you weren’t this stupid,” Tina says, holding her hands out at her sides in exasperation. “How in Merlin’s name could you be so selfish?”

Graves looks like he’s been slapped. He takes a step back, his hand slipping from Credence’s shoulder.

Rage bubbles up in Credence like lava. “Don’t you dare call him selfish,” he hisses.

Three sets of shocked eyes turn towards him.

Tina fidgets with her coat. “Credence, why don’t you and Queenie go for a walk,” she suggests.

Irritation flashes across Graves’s face. “He isn’t a child to be sent from the room when things get serious,” he spits.

“Fine. Let him hear. Your choice,” Tina says, staccato. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Neither of you are ready for this. It’s been two months since Grindelwald tore your lives apart, and--”

“We’re both capable of making our own decision,” Graves interrupts.

“Oh, is that so? You could have fooled me.” Tina snorts. “Queenie told me how he’s all but imprinted on you like a baby duck.”

“Credence knows his own mind, Teenie,” Queenie says, speaking for the first time.

Tina spins to face her sister. “He’s barely more than a child!”

“He’s an adult,” Graves says, something like offense on his face. “Don’t you dare accuse me--”

“I’m not accusing you of anything! Yes, he’s an adult, but an abused, desperate adult barely finding his own way. He was nearly seduced by a man wearing your face, for Merlin’s sake.”

“I-- I’ve never taken anything I wanted before now,” Credence says softly, making Tina look at him. “Graves didn’t push me; I started this. This is me finding out for myself what I want.”

The anger slips from Tina’s face to be replaced with a look of irritation. She throws Graves one last dark look. “I still can’t believe you,” she grumbles. “Do you even know how much this could’ve cost you two if it’d been anyone besides us?”

“Most people knock,” Graves deadpans. “You should try it sometime. It’s rude to apparate straight into someone’s home unannounced.”

“Then tell you wards not to let me in.” Tina pauses, and a thought seems to occur to her. “Why did your wards let me in?”

Graves sighs. “There are very few people I trust, and for better or worse, you’re one of the few on that list. If someone comes to kill me in my sleep, I want you to be able to get in in time to stop it.”

“Aww,” Tina says falsely. “I would be flattered, Director Graves, if I hadn’t just found you ravishing a nineteen-year-old.”

“‘Ravishing’?” Graves parrots in dismay, just as Queenie giggles.

“From what I can hear, Mr. Graves here wasn’t the only one doin’ the ravishin’,” she says, throwing Credence an amused look. His blush gets impossibly hotter, and he resolutely tries not to think about the way his hand had felt on the silken skin of Graves’s cock.

Queenie’s smirk only widens.

“That’s really not something I want to think about.” Tina pulls an exaggerated ‘ew’ face before holding out a folder. “I brought the information you requested.”

Graves reaches to take the folder, but Tina holds onto it, refusing to relinquish her grasp. “Ms. Goldstein?” he questions.

“Some stones might be better left unturned, Percival. Remember that,” she says, low, before letting go.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he say warily. He doesn’t open the folder, simply sets it on the coffee table.

An uncomfortable silence falls. Seemingly for lack of anything better to do, Tina resumes trying to glare a hole into Graves’s suit. Credence shifts his weight from foot to foot before tossing Queenie a desperate glance.

“Hows about I take Credence out for a hot dog?” Queenie asks.

Credence nods, guiltily relieved to be given an excuse to escape the tension.

Graves makes to reach for his coat, and Queenie adds, “ _Alone_. You and Teenie can stay here and chat like yous are proper adults.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Graves says. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Then why do you look like you’re ready to be hexed at any moment?” Tina tosses.

Graves tilts his head. “I don’t know, maybe because I can see your hand twitching towards your wand. You always did have an obvious tell.”

Credence wonders if the pair of them will start throwing curses if they leave then alone. It’s never occurred to him before now to wonder if there are deadly spells.

Queenie rolls her eyes. “There are, but they wouldn’t use them.”

“What?” Tina asks, looking at her sister in confusion.

“Credence was wondering if you twos would actually kill each other,” Queenie says. Without giving either of them a chance to reply, she takes Credence’s hand and pulls him out of the apartment.

As they take the elevator down, worry still gnaws at him.

Queenie glances at him. “Don’t worry, hon. They’re always like this. Or, well, they use to be, back before.” She squeezes his hand reassuringly. It’s odd; he’s never had anyone other than Modesty and Graves hold his hand.

“Before Grindelwald?” he asks as they emerge onto the street.

“Nah. Teenie would’ve noticed the switch if that’d been it. Those two have a long history.” Queenie shakes her head and sighs. “They met back when I was still at school. He was the senior auror responsible for mentoring her after she first finished her auror training.”

Credence’s steps falter. Neither of them had ever mentioned it.

“They never do. Don’t want folks in the department to think he’s playing favorites, see?” Queenie says. “She was only nineteen. The world still had its shine for her, and she thought she could make it a better place one case at a time. Mr. Graves, though-- he was a different story.”

Credence furrows his brow, but doesn’t bother asking, knowing Queenie will hear the question either way.

“He was thirty-two and less than a year back from the war,” she says, voice soft. “What he saw over there changed him, folks told Teenie. He was never particularly social to start with, but after, well. He wasn’t a pleasant person. He’d been put in charge of following up on reports of war crimes-- things done by American soldiers.”

She pauses, looking up at the sky. “The wizarding world is a small one, Credence. He saw men knew, men he worked with and went to school with, men he considered decent people, doing unspeakable things. That’s enough to change anyone for the worse.”

Credence looks up at the buildings, unsure what to say. Even with the constant Manhattan breeze, the weather is warm enough that they don’t need coats. Spring has settled over the city, and every now and then he can catch sight of it in a budding tree or freshly planted flowers.

Something dark churns in his stomach. He can only imagine what that must have been like, how it would destroy someone’s faith in humanity.

Queenie nods knowingly. “Exactly. He saw just what people are capable of, given the opportunity, and he didn’t trust no one. Not other people, not his own aurors, and sure not himself. It damn near got him killed a bunch of times, too.”

“What happened, he got along with Tina?”

Queenie’s laugh tinkles like bells. “Not one bit. He made her life hell. She used to send me letters telling me how much she hated the jackass she had to work with.”

“What changed?” Credence asks, not understanding.

“Tina swears he had a death wish back then-- used to run off half-cocked on cases without backup. In their job, you have to trust your fellow aurors. Not trusting them almost cost him his life,” she says. “Tina started following him, told him it’d look bad if he dies because she wasn’t there for backup. He did everything he could to run her off, but eventually he gave up. After that, they were a team.

“He kept her on as his partner after her orientation. No one understood it-- he was a sure bet for the next Director of Magical Security; why was he keeping a green kid with no experience when he could’ve had his pick?” Queenie tosses her hair, looking over at Credence. “Naturally, everyone assumed they were together.”

“Together?” Credence echoes.

“Sleepin’ together,” Queenie clarifies.

“Oh,” Credence manages, blushing.

“It’s sweet. That’s all most folks your age can think about,” she says before continuing, “Anyhows, folks started whispering, sayin’ Teenie was only around ‘cause she was Mr. Graves’s gal. Truth be told, back then she was a little sweet on him, but she tried not to show it. And like she used to say, he hardly even seemed to notice that she was a woman. Guess we know why, huh?” She raises her eyebrows suggestively.

Credence ignores it. “What changed?”

“Nothin’ at first. No one’d dare treat her badly with Mr. Graves stomping around the department like a thunderstorm. Once he got promoted though--” Queenie shakes her head, and Credence sees anger on her face for the first time. “Once he was gone, they started givin’ her the worst assignments. No matter how much she proved herself, they wouldn’t trust her to lace her own boots.”

“But why?” he asks indignantly.

She shrugs. “That’s just the world we women live in, hon. So, ‘bout a week before he was set to leave for Europe to chase Grindelwald, your Mr. Graves decided he’d fix the situation the only way he knew how.”

Credence’s first thought, knowing Graves, was with a wand.

That makes Queenie laugh. “Nah, the other way, the one that only _might_ get him fired.”

Understanding hits Credence like lead weight.

“Uh-huh. That’s the one,” she says. “He let himself be caught with a man. Took some Joe out to a speakeasy he knew MACUSA gossips likes to haunt and kissed him right there in public. The whole office knew by Wednesday, and he was on a boat to France by Friday.”

Not for the first time, Credence wonders how Graves could possibly believe that he isn’t a good person. He thinks about the war, about all the things he could have seen and dozens more he can’t even imagine, and he wonders if it could really shake Graves’s faith in his own goodness that much.

If Queenie is listening, she doesn’t comment.

Instead she says, “When he came back, Teenie thought it was the war all over again-- shellshock, you know. Then when he didn’t do anything to stop her demotion, she thought he resented her for making him care enough to throw himself on his own sword for her. Folks weren’t polite about it, but they wasn’t dumb enough to say anything to his face.” She looks at Credence. “And now you know the story of why those twos always seem to be trying to find even footing.”

He needs space to think, to piece this new information into his mental concept of the aurors he’s grown to think of as some sort of patchwork family. He looks around, almost as though looking for an escape, and realizes that they’ve walked all the way to Madison Square Park.

Queenie lets go of his hand. “You stay right here, now. I’m gonna’ go get us some hot dogs. Don’t go running off on me.”

Credence is unspeakably grateful. He knows that she’s giving him time to think in privacy, wonders if she planned it like this. He sits on a park bench and cradles his head in his hands.

He thinks of the way Graves never seems to trust himself, the way he had tried not to involve himself with Credence. He thinks of all the small self-consciousnesses he’s founds hiding under the cracks of Graves’s bravado. He remembers his reluctance and the way it seemed to have nothing to do with Credence himself.

He doesn’t know how long he sits like that, thoughts swirling in endless circles.

Only when something nudges his hand does he look up to see Queenie holding out a hot dog. He takes it with a murmured thanks, and she takes a seat beside him, knee pressed to his in a way he’s sure is intentional.

They eat in silence for several minutes.

“Is that way Graves was so hesitant to be with me?” Credence says, unable to keep the question to himself.

Queenie looks at him, surprised. “He was hesitant?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I’m not omniscient, hon,” she says with a small smile. “You gotta’ remember, I can’t hear anything from him ‘cept what he wants me to hear.”

Credence opens his mouth to explain, then thinks better of it. He takes the last bite of his hotdog, letting the memories of the night they first kissed cycle through his head.

She bobs her head, understanding. It only occurs to Credence then to realize how unsurprised she is by the images of two men kissing. He tries not to get used to how good it feels to be met with acceptance rather than repulsion.

Queenie swallows her own bite, then starts, “Like I say, I’m not in his head, but I’d say you’re at least half right. He has no illusions about what seemingly good folks-- people who consider themselves good-- can do. That’s enough to rattle anyone’s trust in themselves.”

“And the other half?” Credence asks.

“I’ve seen into the minds of a lot of men who’ve been to war. People are mostly good-- never let anyone convince you otherwise-- but war can make monsters out of angels. And Mr. Graves, well, he saw the worst of it,” she explains. “If I had to take a guess, I’d say that some of his worries are because of the things he saw-- the things he saw done to children, Credence. And before you even think it, I know you’re not a child, but you are young. You’re so young, hon, and you don’t even realize it.”

Credence can’t help thinking that no, he knows exactly how young he is. He feels it in every gap in his knowledge, in ever inexperienced fumble of his hands.

“That’s exactly my point,” Queenie says. “You’ve somehow both been sheltered and seen some of the worst of folks. It makes you-- confusing. We look at you and see a boy who barely understands worldly things, but then you open your mouth, and you speak with a thoughtfulness most folk’ll never learn.”

“So, you’re saying I’m naïve but not simple,” Credence clarifies.

“Exactly,” she agrees. “Now think of it from Graves’s view: You seem to know what you want, but you’re still so innocent, despite all the bad stuff that’s happened to you. I’d imagine that he wonders if it makes him like those men if he takes that innocence.”

“But he’s nothing like them! He must know that.”

“I’m sure he does, but fears don’t gotta’ be rational,” she says, patting him on the knee. “Be patient with him, is all I’m saying.”

She stands, and Credence follows suit wordlessly. He takes her trash and walks it to the nearest trashcan. She watches him, fondness in her eyes.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to be surrounded by people who care. He’d thought he knew what it was to have a family; he’d known a mother and two sisters, but this-- this is something else entirely. He feels cared for, warm, for the first time in his life. No matter how poorly executed, Tina was trying to protect him-- _cared_ enough to protect him.

By the time they make it back to the apartment, the sun is starting to set. The city is already cast in endless twilight by buildings, the sun never having had a chance.

To Queenie’s evident amusement, Credence knocks before unlocking the apartment door.

“You don’t have to knock where you live,” Graves says dryly when they enter. He’s seated at his desk, Tina standing at his side.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Credence says.

Graves snorts derisively, slinging an arm loosely around her waist. “What, my torrid affair with my subordinate?”

“That-- That’s not what I meant,” Credence says, smiling despite his blush.

Tina elbows Graves in the head in a way that has to be painful.

“Ouch,” he yelps, rubbing his temple. “Kidding, kidding. You’re a bit, well, female for my tastes. Besides, Credence knows I only have eyes for him.”

Somehow, Credence knows this. He has trouble believing it, but he knows it’s true.

“That’s in poor taste, Director,” Tina grumbles.

“Oh, ‘Director’ now, is it?” Graves smirks. “Petulance is unbecoming, _Auror Goldstein_.”

Credence thinks that they might descend into pulling each other’s hair like kids.

Queenie apparently agrees, because she says, “Okay children, your play-date is over. Graves has another month before he returns to work.” She waves her wand, and the new paperwork strewn over the desk stacks itself into a pile.

“I just wanted his opinion on a potion counterfeiting ring that’s sprung up,” Tina says. “What else were we supposed to do for the century you two were gone?”

“Complain, complain, complain.” Queenie laughs. “Come on, Teenie. Let’s leave the lovebirds alone.”

Tina makes a face. “Still don’t want to think about that just yet.”

Tina turns to leave, and Queenie throws them an apologetic smile. ‘ _She’s coming around,_ ’ she mouths before both sisters vanish with the tell-tale pop of apparition.

Credence moves beside Graves where he’s seated at his desk.

A heavy silence fills the room. They haven’t talked since Tina’s outburst, not directly. Credence thinks about bringing up what Queenie told him, but decides against it. It doesn’t feel like the right moment, not when he can see the uncertainty on Graves’s face.

“What was in the folder Tina brought you?” he asks, desperate to fill the silence. “Work?”

Graves pushes the folder towards him. “See for yourself.”

Brow furrowed, Credence opens it. An age-yellowed picture of a strikingly familiar woman meets his gaze. It’s a magical picture, he realizes when she tilts her head, a not-quite smile on her lips. She has dark hair that curls just below her chin and pale skin that nearly shines out of the black and white photo.

“My mother,” Credence breathes, because he _knows_. He sees a dim shadow of her beauty in his own face, now that it’s filled out some with the aid of regular meals.

Graves puts a hand on Credence’s shoulder. “Her name was Erella Selwyn.”

“Selwyn,” Credence repeats slowly. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“That’s because it’s a wizarding surname-- a pureblood wizarding surname.”

Credence’s mouth falls open. “But… how?” he manages. “How could I have ended up with Ma if she was a pureblood?”

Graves ducks his head before looking up, both hands wrapping around his mug of coffee. “Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s not pretty.”

Something heavy sinks in Credence’s stomach. “I need to,” he says.

“The Selwyns are an old family-- a dark one. Not the worst of the worst, but they have a reputation,” Graves explains. “Your mother met a no-maj, fell in love with him. When her family found out, they killed him in cold blood. It was too late, though. She was already pregnant.”

“With me,” Credence finishes weakly.

Graves nods slowly. “The details get fuzzy after that, but it seems that she moved from place to place hiding from her family. She died of dragonpox sometime after your birth. Shortly before death, it seems she brought you to a no-maj orphanage thinking that being raised without magic would be your best shot at safety.”

Credence’s head spins. He’s already been so overloaded with information today that he barely knows how to handle this new piece of the puzzle his life has become. He tries to think past his shock, to absorb the precious details he’s being given.

His real mother cared. His real mother tried to save him.

“Was anyone ever arrested?” he asks, and his voice seems to come from a long way off.

“No. I was only a trainee back then, but I remember the incident,” Graves says, a dark look in his eyes. “Back then, powerful families had the department in their pockets. Most of the higher-ups were purebloods of the same mindset. That case was one of the ones that made me determined to change things in the department.”

Credence wonders at that-- that their lives have been connected for so long without their knowledge. He wonders if he’s reaching, trying to make a sentimental connection where none exists.

A storm must be brewing across his face, becausebecause Graves stands. He leads them to the couch,  but not without abandoning his coffee in favor of scotch.

When they sit, Graves immediately maneuvers Credence close at his side. The warmth of his body is real, grounding. It doesn’t leave room for the world of maybes circling in Credence’s head.

“What did you and Queenie talk about?” Graves asks, but there’s concern under the nonchalant question.

“You and Tina,” Credence answers honestly. He’s not even sure if he’s capable of lying to Graves, especially not right now.

His answer seems to catch Graves off guard. “What?”

“She told me what you did for Tina.”

“Is this going to be a thing, you two gossiping like the typing pool every time you get together,” Graves asks, but there’s amusement in his voice.

Credence bites his lip. “Does it bother you?”

“No. Turn around,” Graves instructs.

Tentatively, Credence does as he’s told, presenting his back to Graves. He tenses the moment large hands touch his back, unaccustomed to any touch not intended to hurt. Graves’s thumbs dig into his shoulder, kneading, and the gentle pressure feels so good that Credence instantly relaxes back into it.

“There are parts of my past I’m not entirely proud of, but I have nothing to hide from you,” Graves says.

Credence can’t help a small groan as Graves’s ministrations continue.

“I never want you to feel like you have to ask someone else about me,” Graves says, finger working the tense muscles under his hands. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. You only need ask.”

“Sometimes,” Credence says slowly. “Sometimes I don’t know the right questions to ask. You--” He cuts himself off.

“Tell me,” Graves says gently. “It’s okay.”

Credence looks down at his lap, where growing arousal is beginning to ruin the lines of his pants. He doesn’t think Graves intended his action to be sensual, but there’s no helping his body’s response.

He tries to think, to form coherent sentences. “You keep everything so close to your chest. I never know what to ask to find out what you’re thinking-- or if I even should ask,” he says.

Graves’s hands still. “Being forthcoming with my feelings isn’t a luxury I’ve ever been allowed. I suppose it’s a habit I’ll have to learn to break, at least with you.”

He leans down to press a kiss to the side of Credence’s neck. His lips linger on the delicate skin, and Credence’s shoulders rise slightly, unfamiliar with the sensation. Graves’s hand combs through his hair, cradling Credence’s head in his hands.

Graves shifts, an arm looping around Credence’s waist to pull him back against his chest.

A gasp escapes Credence at the feeling of Graves’s arousal pressed to his lower back.

Graves freezes. “Okay?” he asks, his breath warm against Credence’s ear. “Not too much for tonight?”

Credence nods, swallowing, barely able to think past the warmth of the palm pressed to his stomach. Graves’s ministrations have left him achingly hard. “Yeah-- yes.”

The day has left his head spinning, but here, now, this is all he wants. He wants Graves’s hands on his body, wants them to erase the doubts and the confusion, even if only for a while.

“Simply tell me to stop, and I will,” Graves says against his skin.

The hand on Credence’s abdomen slides lower, following the curve of his inner thigh, barely brushing the tent in his trousers. Credence squirms, pressing back into Graves’s hips. Grave’s breath gasps out, and he grinds forward against Credence as though on instinct.

Graves’s breath is labored in his ear. Two fingers run up the V of his thighs, tantalizingly slow. Graves’s touch is gentle, teasing, and his warmth spreads through Credence like embers.

He watches as Graves unbuttons his pants, drawing him out. It’s heady, seeing Grave’s hand on his cock, seeing himself in Grave’s hand.

Grave’s other hand moves to the collar of Credence’s shirt. He starts working the buttons open, exposing Credence’s collarbone to the air. For one long moment he lets himself sink back into the sensation, savoring the attention, before reality sinks in.

He reaches up blindly to halt Graves’s progress. “Don’t-- don’t,” Credence manages.

Instantly, both Graves’s hands still. “We don’t have to. It’s alright,” he says. He makes to tuck Credence back into his pants, but Credence shakes his head.

“It’s fine. I--” Credence swallows hard. “I like it. Just-- not my shirt right now. Not yet.”

He thinks of the scars that criss cross his body, warped and stretched with age. He doesn’t want to see the pity on Graves’s face, not now, not when everything feels so perfect.

“Alright.” Graves kisses his jaw, then says, low, “I meant it when I said that you’re beautiful.”

Credence shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t manage words, not like this. He wonders if Graves knows, wonders if Graves has always known. Either way, he knows Graves wouldn’t be surprised, doubts he’d even be disgusted. Still, Credence doesn’t want to hear lies.

“You are,” Graves insists. He strokes Credence’s cock, once, from root to tip. “Let me show you?”

It’s a question, but for what, Credence doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know, in the end, because this is Graves. Credence nods.

Graves moves out from behind him, and Credence doesn’t understand what’s happening when he slides to the floor, kneeling in front of the couch.

Graves looks up at him, eyes dark with desire, before taking Credence’s cock in hand. It’s only when he leans forward that Credence understands what’s happening. He doesn’t have time to protest before Grave’s mouth is on him, lips tracing the length of his cock.

“What--?” Credence manages before a moan takes him by surprise.

Instead of answering, Graves closes his mouth around him. It’s warm and wet and better than anything Credence has ever felt. His eyes stutter shut and his breath hitches. Graves swirls his tongue, and without meaning to, Credence's legs fall further open.

He can’t believe he’s seeing this-- Percival Graves on his knees, mouth on his skin. It feels perfect, but it doesn't seem right. This is an act reserved for desperate men and women in back alleys, not a powerful wizard with life at his fingertips.

Graves pulls back to press a kiss to his thigh, breath warm through the fabric of his pants.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Credence pants.

Graves looks up at him, brow furrowed. “Don’t like it?”

“It’s not--” Credence breaks off. He traces a hand along Graves’s stubbled jaw, watching the red flush of his lips. “You don’t have to. You-- you’re too good for this.”

Confusion flashes across Graves’s face for a moment before he seems to understand what Credence is saying. He chuckles low in his throat, breath ghosting across Credence’s cock as he says, “I’m doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because I want to bring you pleasure. I’m not above that, am I?”

Credence isn’t sure how he’s supposed to respond. This feels so good, so right, that he can’t make it mesh with what he’s caught glimpses of in dark alleys. This is Graves-- powerful and handsome and on his knees for _him_.

“No, but--” Credence shakes his head like it will clear his thoughts. “It’s-- it’s not pleasant.”

“Sucking cock?” Graves asks, a glint of humor in his eyes. “That depends on who you ask. Of course it isn’t if you ask someone turning tricks, but me personally, I like it. I like being able to watch my lover fall apart under my mouth.”

Credence can only lean forward to press his face to Graves’s hair. “Lover?” he manages, breathless.

“Lover,” Graves agrees. He moves up until he can nose at Credence’s temple. “That’s what you are to me, Credence, my lover. And I’m yours now, so let me show you what all that word can mean.”

“Yes,” Credence breathes. “Please.”

That seems to be all the encouragement Graves needs. He strokes Credence’s cock once, twice, before once more wrapping his lips around it once more. His other hand shifts past Credence’s clothes to press warm and gentle against his thigh.

The pleasure is overwhelming. Credence finds himself leaning forward, shrouding Graves with his upper body. His fingers twist into Grave’s hair, and he does his best not to pull, even as new sensations wrack his body with every bob of Graves’s head.

The suction on his cock increases, and he gasps as the hand on his thigh moves to cup his balls. His head spins, like no matter how hard he breathes, he can’t get enough air. It should be terrifying, but Credence finds that he can’t be afraid with Graves’s hands on him, with Graves’s _mouth_ on him.

That thought alone is enough to push him closer to the edge. “Graves,” he moans, as much plea as encouragement, a warning.

He expects Graves to pull back, but instead, he only sucks him deeper.

Credence watches, awed by the sight before him. He thinks it might be the most amazing thing he’s ever seen, magic of a kind he never knew existed. It should feel dirty, wrong, but instead he feels valued for the first time in his life, like he’s worth more than his penance.

Graves’s fingers move further down, over the smooth patch of skin to the hole below. He doesn’t press, doesn’t do much of anything other than let the pad of his thumb drags over puckered skin.

Credence can’t suppress the startled gasp that works its way up his throat. It’s something he’s heard whispered about, the things that go on between men when no one’s around to see. It makes him nervous, but it also sends a bolt of arousal straight through his gut.

He feels the pleasure building, threatening to crest. He scrables at Graves’s shoulders, trying to move him away, but to no avail. One light press in time with the bob of Graves’s head is all it takes to push Credence over the edge.

He comes almost silently, incapable of forming even a moan. Pleasure washes like waves over him, but the heat of Graves’s mouth doesn’t recede.

Credence looks down at him, unable to believe what’s just happened. Graves looks back, unashamed and wanting.

Credence’s softening cock slips from his mouth only to be cupped in his hand, cradled, and there’s something so tender in the gesture, so adoring.

Even wrung out as he is, Credence wants to reciprocate, wants to show Graves how much he appreciates what he’s just been given. He leans forward, capturing Graves’s mouth with his. The taste that meets his searching tongue is new and not at all good, bitter and heavy-- himself, he realizes with a jolt-- but he finds that he wants to keep tasting it on Graves for as long as he can.

He reaches blindly for the fastening of Graves’s pants, but finds Graves’s hand already there.

Credence looks down, watching as Graves pulls himself free. “Can I--?” he asks.

Graves shakes his head. “Just watch this time,” he says, and his voice comes out rough-- because of him, Credence realizes; because of his cock.

He watches as Graves starts to stroke himself, still kneeling on the floor in front of the couch. Credence leans forward until they’re breathing the same air, until he has a clear view of Graves pulling himself off. Graves spreads his knees wider so he can get a better look.

“You like watching?” Graves asks in that same horse voice.

“Yes,” Credence breathes, entirely without thought.

“You’ve never seen something like this before, have you? Never seen someone with their hand on their cock, never stopped to watch.”

“I haven’t,” Credence agreed.

“No, of coarse you haven’t. I bet you’ve barely even seen your own hand on you cock,” Graves says. He looks up at him, eyes impossibly dark and lips angry-red and glistening. “You’ll show me, though, won’t you? You’ll let me show you how to touch yourself properly.”

Credence nods vigorously. “Yes. I want you to.”

That admission must be exactly the encouragement Graves needs, because he groans, spilling pearlescent white over his hand and the floor below.

He looks up through hooded eyes, the picture of debatuery. Credence thinks hazely that this might be the closest thing to religious fervor he’s ever felt-- fervor without guilt, because with Graves looking at him like that, Credence can’t find any of the guilt he’s always been told he should feel.

Graves stands on shaky legs, and Credence watches him, still at a loss for words.

Graves trails his fingers along Credence’s jaw, tilting his face up. “Alright?” he asks.

Credence nods.

Graves sinks down onto the sofa next to him. “I didn’t push too far there at the end, did I?” he asks slowly, and Credence doesn’t think he’s imagining the nervous edge to his voice.

“No.” Credence shakes his head. “No, not-- not at all.”

Grave presses their shoulders together, squeezing his knee. “Come to bed with me?”

Cadence's eyes widen, and Graves must hear his mistake.

“To sleep,” he elaborated. “Just to sleep.”

“I’d like that,” Credence says, not entirely sure he would have turned down the invitation even without the qualifier.

Graves smiles, small and fond, and loops an arm around Credence’s shoulder. Credence lean in without hesitation, and he swears he feels a kiss pressed to the crown of his head.


	10. Chapter 10

Credence wakes to Graves trailing kisses down the exposed line of his neck.

“Good morning,” Credence mumbles sleepily.

“Morning, beautiful,” Graves says against his skin, and Credence blushes at the endearment.

In the week since Tina and Queenie’s visit, he and Graves have shared a bed almost every night. True to his word, Graves hasn’t pushed for anything more. He’s given Credence time to adjust to having another person in his space, against his skin, and for that Credence is unspeakably grateful.

They haven’t progressed any further than that first night when Graves had gotten down on his knees and shown Credence what it feels like to be worshiped. Credence is slowly learning how to touch his lover without fear, how to feel pleasure without the accompanying pang of guilt.

Still, even with his growing comfort, Credence has managed to keep his shirt on through all their encounters. He knows that Graves thinks it’s due to his innate modesty, but he hasn’t known how to broach the subject of the truth. He knows he’s being foolish and doubts that Graves will even be surprised by his scars, but he can’t seem to shake his self-consciousness.

“I need to drop by the office today to pick up a few things-- case briefs and such. I don’t want to be completely out of the loop when I start back,” Graves says. “How would you feel about coming along? I know MACUSA doesn’t hold the fondest memories for you, so I understand if not, but I thought you might like to take a better look at where I work.”

Credence nods against the pillow. “I’d like that,” he says. He hadn’t absorbed much about the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on his first visit other than the sheer number of witches and wizards.

“Very good. We can head out after we eat. I’ll make breakfast while you get dressed,” Graves says. With one final kiss to Credence’s shoulder, Graves slips from the bed. Credence watches him go, enjoying the way he doesn’t bother donning a shirt. As much as he loves Graves’s suit, this unimpeded view of his well-muscled back and shoulders is a sight Credence will never cease to enjoy.

He sits up slowly, letting the sheets pool around his waist as he stretches. If worldly pleasure is as sin like Ma always said, then he thinks he might be just as damned by pleasure of sleeping next to Graves as he is by feeling the older man’s skin move against his own.

Credence makes his way to his room to find his robes. Even though Graves insists that they’re not necessary, Credence finds that he enjoys wearing them. They’re a physical mark of the world he now lives in, a talisman for when he feels that he doesn’t belong.

He’d taken to wearing his robes on his regular visits to Mr. Jonker. Apparently noticing his fondness for them, Mr. Jonker has offered him the formal robes he still had.

“They’ll need some hemming, mind you. And perhaps a cleaning spell or two, but they’re a very fine set, much nicer than the monstrosities they call dress robes nowadays,” he had said.

Credence has shaken his head. “I couldn’t possibly--”

“Come now, my boy. They haven’t fit me in well over a decade, been in my family for countless years,” Mr. Jonker said. “I haven’t got any grandchildren, no one to inherit them. I’m the last of my line, and when I die they’ll simply be lost with the estate. Please, take them.”

Speechless, Credence had accepted.

Now, an elaborately embroidered set of midnight blue robes hang in the wardrobe next to his usual black set.

He doesn’t know why, but for some reason it’s these he pulls down today. He wonders if maybe it’s because he’s tired of feeling out of place beside Graves, tired of having people look at him and see only a charity case at the side of an accomplished wizard.

He emerges into the kitchen, self-consciously tugging at his sleeve.

Graves is nowhere in sight, and Credence furrows his brow. Then he hears Graves’s voice, tense and angry.

“I thought I made my position very clear,” Graves says.

“Tolly is very sorry, Young Master Graves, but Tolly was sent with a message,” comes a squeaking voice.

Credence edges slowly towards the living room until he can see Graves towering over a small figure, hands on his hips. At first, he thinks it’s the elf from the tailor’s shop, but this elf looks older. It has a slightly upturned nose and a notch in one of its large ears. Its voice is lower than Mippy’s, and Credence thinks this one might be male.

“I don’t give a Salamander’s tale why you’re here. Leave,” Graves barks.

“Please, sir. Tolly will be punished, sir. Tolly must deliver his message or Master will be very displeased.”

Graves runs a tired hand over his face. “Out with it, then.”

“Master Graves wants Tolly to inform Young Master Graves that his presence is requested at the main house for dinner.”

“The son of a bitch would probably poison me. No.” Graves scoffs, then says, “Message delivered. Now leave.”

The elf gives a low bow, then with a crack vanishes into a puff of smoke.

“Fucking bastard,” Graves mutters.

“What did it-- he do?” Credence asks, vaguely offended on the little creature’s behalf. It appeared to only be doing its job.

Graves looks at him in surprise before waving his hand at where it had been. “Not the house elf, it’s master. That was my father’s elf.”

Credence blinks. “What?”

“I haven’t heard from the jackass since I sent his favorite child to Europe, and now he sends a damn elf to order me to dinner. Not fucking likely.”

Credence only nods, not entirely convinced that Graves is even talking to him.

Graves stomps into the kitchen where something on the stove has started burning. He looks into the pan only to vanish its contents with a scowl. Four pieces of bread float into the air, browning even as jam spreads across them. One hovers in front of Credence, and he takes it after a moment, still not quite used to the display.

“Looks like it’s toast today. We’ll have to pick up groceries on our way--” Graves cuts off, looking at Credence. “Fucking hell. Where’d you get a set of entitlement robes?”

“I-- what?” Credence asks. “Mr. Jonker gave them to me.”

Graves gestures at Credence’s person. “Those robes you’re wearing, they’re called entitlement robes. They’re passed down through old wizarding families, given to the next in line to inherit the family title. Those are more than just robes, Credence. Those are a declaration of inheritance. Did Mr. Jonker not tell you?”

Credence shakes his head. “He just said that he didn’t have any grandchildren to give them to.”

“That dotty old codger,” Graves says, fondness in his voice. “Those robes mark you as the successor of Jonker line.”

“That-- that’s impossible. I’m not even related to him.”

Graves shrugs. “It’s rare, but not unheard of. The robes are enchanted so they can only be worn by the rightful successor of a family. They’ll try to strangle anyone who steals them.”

Credence looks down at himself, stunned. “I should-- I should go talk to him. This can’t be-- can’t be right. He must have made a mistake.”

“He couldn’t have done it by accident. It takes a ritual to change the entailment of a wizarding line,” Graves says slowly. He brushes his fingers over the robes, and they shimmer at his touch.

Credence opens and closes his mouth, unable to produce words.

Graves looks just as stunned as he feels. “Fucking hell,” he repeats “It’s too early for all this. First my dad’s house elf shows up in my kitchen, and now Jonker has gone and made you his successor. Is it too early for a drink?”

“Not if I can’t have one, too,” Credence says. He feels like he’s adrift, like once again his world has shifted.

“Good answer.” Graves chuckled. “Look at it this way, if you accept it, you’re legally able to call yourself Credence Jonker under wizarding law.”

“How did you know--?” Credence starts.

“That you don’t like using that woman’s last name?” Graves finishes, raising his eyebrows. “You haven’t so much as said it in the past two months. It doesn’t take an investigative auror to figure out that you don’t like using the name given to you by that harridan who adopted you.”

“What does it mean that Mr. Jonker would-- would do something like this?”

Graves sighs. “Hell if I ever know what that man is thinking. Mr. Jonker was once a poor no-maj born; perhaps he saw something of himself in you. He inherited the robes from his mentor, so if I had to guess, I’d say that this is his unsubtle way of asking you to be his apprentice.”

Credence boggles. “But I can hardly even use magic!”

“What sort of things have you been doing when you go to see him?” Graves asks considering.

“Well, he’s teaching me about different types of wand woods and how you carve them. He’s been explaining how you imbue a wand core with--” Credence cuts off eye widening.

Mr. Jonker has been teaching him how to make wands.

Graves smirks knowingly.

They finish the rest of their toast in silence, Credence considering this strange new turn in his life. If Mr. Jonker had directly offered him something so precious, he knows he would have turned it down. He thinks he should feel some irritation at being all but tricked into taking on such a heavy responsibility, but as is, he simply feels overwhelmed.

“You don’t have to accept, you know,” Graves says. “We can stop by his shop after we finish at MACUSA.”

Credence shakes his head. “I think I’d like more time to think about it, if that’s alright.”

“Perfectly. It’s the old bat’s fault for not telling you what the robes meant. I think he can do with waiting a bit longer for his answer.”

A thought occurs to Credence. “Should I go change?”

“I doubt wearing them will do any harm. Most wizards wouldn’t know an entitlement robe if it tried to strangle them. They’re an old American tradition that’s mostly died out,” Graves explains. “Back in the colonial days, wizards didn’t always have time to make a will before they kicked it. The robes were enchanted to pick the next successor from the bloodline, and if there was none, to pick a suitable replacement so magical artifacts didn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“So they’re not common?” Credence asks.

“No. I’d say there are probably only seven families left with them. Olden, Hudson, Madison, Pensworth, Milton, Graves, and Jonker were the last, to my knowledge. Only the Milton, Graves and Hudson robes still follow their original bloodline. The rest are used to pass along titles or positions.”

“Your family has them?” Credence asks.

“Oh yes,” Graves says, something nostalgic in his eyes. “I tried putting them on once as a teenager. Had rug burns on my forearms for the next week for my trouble. It’ll be a cold day in hell before my father willingly hands them over. That’s why I’ve got to go clear out his estate as soon as he snuffs it-- don’t want some poor estate agent trying to clean out the house only to be attacked by a demon dressing gown.”

Possibilities swirl through Credence’s head. If he accepts, he won’t have to rely on Graves for everything, will feel less like a burden, but will he simply be moving from one person’s charity to another’s? He can’t imagine what Mr. Jonker sees in him to warrant such an offer.

Graves takes his coat from a nearby hook, and Credence takes that as the sign that it’s time for them to leave. He wonders if it’s cowardly that he’s revealed for an excuse not to think about his life’s latest development.

This time, they go to MACUSA by floo.

“Special licenses are required to apparate into MACUSA,” Graves explains as they step out into a shimmering atrium Credence has never seen before. “Permits allowing side-along apparition are only granted to high-level officials.”

“How did Grin-- Grindelwald get in, then?” Credence asks.

“The records show that he used the front door,” Graves says with a hint of dry humor. “Must have thought the wards on the floo fireplaces would noticed the switch.”

Credence follows Graves through the halls of MACUSA. For once he falls in step with Graves rather than lagging behind. Being here still makes him antsy, but at least there’s no mistaking the upper levels of the Major Investigation Department for the holding cells and interrogation rooms below.

Unfamiliar eyes prickle the back of Credence’s neck, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining that they’re looking more at him than Graves. He wonders if it’s obvious to them what he is, what he’s done. He shakes the thought away; it’s the robes, he knows. They’re more elaborate than any he’s seen for wizarding daywear.

An unfamiliar man walking the other direction down the hall stops short of them.

“Director Graves, sir,” the man says, surprised. “I didn’t think you were scheduled to return to work for another two weeks.”

“Abernathy,” Graves greets. “Three, actually. I simply needed to retrieve a few things from my office.”

“Oh,” says Abernathy, looking mildly disappointed. His eyes flick towards Credence and linger, something like surprise furrowing his brow. “Is the boy?”

“Credence,” Graves corrects. “Yes.”

Heat rushes to Credence’s face as Abernathy continues to stare. His eyes track over him, lingering on his face. Credence tucks his hair self-consciously behind his ear, an unfamiliar gesture.

“Your hair is longer,” Abernathy says, sounding confused.

It takes Credence a moment to realize he’s expected to answer. “I-- yes. Graves says it’s because of my magic.”

“Graves, is it? So you two are getting on well, then?” he asks, and there’s something under the words.

“We are,” Graves agrees slowly, a repressed smirk audible in his voice.

Abernathy shifts uncomfortably, eyes still fixed on Credence. “Oh, well, that-- that’s nice. Real nice. Good for-- good for yous.”

He nods at Graves before continuing on, looking away from Credence with evident reluctance.

Credence stares after him, brow furrowed, before looking back at Graves. “Why was he staring at me?” he asks quietly.

This time, Graves does smirk. “He thinks you’re attractive, my boy.”

Credence gapes at that. “What? No, that’s impossible.”

“What reason do I have to lie?” Graves asks, leading them down the hall. “If I find you attractive, is it so unreasonable that another man would?”

“I don’t know, but that’s ridiculous.”

Graves pauses before his office door, murmuring something complicated to unlock it. “Abernathy is a hard worker, but he has some rather repressed homosexual leanings,” he says softly. He crosses the office and takes a seat behind his desk.

“What makes you think that?” Credence asks as Graves sets about digging through his drawers.

Graves tosses him an amused look over his desk. “What do you think? He propositioned me.”

Credence chokes on this surprised gasp and leans on the back of a chair for support as he coughs. “What? When?” he manages.

Graves sighs. “When I came to retrieve my wand. The boy always had a case of hero worship when it came to me, and apparently something transpired during my absence that made him think such an advance would be welcomed.”

“Did you--” Credence swallows hard. “Did you take him up on it?”

Graves actually laughs. “No, I did not. I make a point not to involve myself with married men. Too complicated.”

“M-married?” Credence shakes his head. “That's not right.”

“Look, it’s none of my business,” Graves says, putting up his hands. “There’s a story behind every relationship, and I don’t know theirs.”

“But cheating on your spouse is never right.”

“Be careful with those black and white absolutes. The world is never that simple,” Graves says as he flips through a file. “Sometimes spouses are okay with outside lovers. Other times marriages are for convenience, not love; they can keep both parties safe and under the radar. Either way, I have no room to pass judgement when I don’t know the situation.”

Credence looks down at the floor. “I-- I never considered that.”

“It’s okay,” Graves says gently, looking up. “I wouldn’t expect you to. That’s not an area of life you’ve had much of an opportunity to see.”

“Ma never married,” Credence says softly. “She said that by adopting up, she could fulfill God’s order to rear children without committing the sin of sex.”

Credence can’t look up. He’s not sure why he’s sharing the information except that it feels like something he needs to get off his chest, something that weighs in the very back of his mind every time he’s intimate with Graves.

“Do you--” Credence swallows hard. “Do you believe sex is a sin?”

“My boy, I am not a religious man,” Graves says, voice too gentle. “I live by my own moral compass, and that has to be enough for me.”

“What does your moral compass tell you?” Credence asks, almost desperate.

Graves stands, coming around the desk so he can lean against the edge closest to Credence. “It tells me that there is no sin in seeking pleasure with another. It tells me that wanting to be close to another is natural, regardless of gender. It tells me that I shouldn’t deny what I feel here--”

Fingers circle Credence’s wrist, bringing his palm up to flatten against Graves’s chest. His heart beats a steady rhythm under Credence’s hand, so human and vulnerable despite all his magic.

Credence’s mouth goes dry as he looks up at Graves. A wave of want washes through him, freeing and terrifying all at once.

“Do you feel that what we do is a sin?” Graves murmurs.

Credence shakes his head. “I-- I feel like I should, but I don’t. Every time I touch you, it feels so right. Even outside of marriage-- even though we’re both men, I don’t see how it can be wrong to be with the person I love most.”

And that very willful defiance of the word of his Ma’s god feels like blasphemy, like he’s turned his back on the last shred of salvation that path could offer.

He thinks that if that salvation means giving up Graves, he doesn’t want it.

Credence leans up to press his lips to Graves, but no sooner do their lips meet than a movement to their left startles them apart. A paper rat scurries across the desk, spinning in frantic circles to get their attention.

Graves sighs and picks up the creature, which promptly unfurls into a sheet of paper covered in Tina’s messy scrawl in big letters-- “ _why does the entire department know?_ ”

Graves lets out an even louder sigh.

He takes a nearby quill and writes “ABERNATHY” sideways across the paper before tapping it with his wand. The paper folds itself back into a rat before scurrying away again.

Credence looks up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Did that say…?” he trails, not wanting to be right.

“Looks like the pixie is out of the pin,” Graves agrees, confirming Credence’s fears.

Credence has to grip the edge of the desk for support. Dread washes over him in waves, fear at costing Graves his standing, fear that he himself might lose his ticket to this magical world.

“Breathe,” Graves instructs, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It was inevitable. I daresay it’s better that we have the mess over with.”

Credence looks up. “But-- wouldn’t you rather people not know?”

A sigh escapes Graves, and he pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the desk. “Secrets eat a person from the inside. Surely you’ve learned that by now.”

Credence shrugs noncommittally because yes, he does know that. He just doesn't see how there’s anything to be done about it.

“I will not be one more secret you have to keep, Credence. I never want you to feel that you’re some dirty affair no one can know about,” Graves says. “You need never feel obligated to tell people-- Merlin knows it can cost you socially-- but I want you to have that option.”

Credence has no idea how to respond to that. He wants to thank Graves, to kiss him. Instead he asks, “But didn’t you keep all of your other relationships secret?”

“I never would have pegged the Goldstein sisters as such gossips,” he says, but a small smile takes the sting from the words. “Not at all. I didn’t tell people of my previous relationships-- and I use that word very loosely-- because I didn’t want to. There’s a difference between a secret and wanting people to mind their own fucking business.”

“Then even if it’s not a secret, you’d prefer it if people didn’t know about us.”

“No,” Graves says simply.

“I don’t understand,” Credence admits.

Graves tilts his gaze towards the ceiling as if searching for words. “You’re different, Credence. This thing between us is different. I find myself daily wanting to shout it from the rooftops and tell the world that you’re my lover.”

He takes a stuttering breath before continuing, “I find that I want to do ridiculous, impossible things when I’m with you. The other night I began researching if it’s possible for men to marry under wizarding law, for Merlin’s sake! And that terrifies me. That’s not something I’ve ever even considered wanting before now.”

Credence’s head spins. He doesn’t know how to process the information he’s being given. Graves researches how he could marry him. Credence’s thoughts stutter over that fact repeatedly, skipping and repeating.

“It is possible, by the way,” Graves says jerkily, something like irritation in his voice. “You just have to find an officiator willing risk losing their license for marrying a pair of men. And I thought about it all night long. Picquery is an officiator, Picquery owes me, and no one would take the president’s license. It’s possible. It’s actually possible.”

Credence tries to find his words. “Are you suggesting that we-- get married?” he asks slowly, because that is somehow simultaneously the most wonderful and the most frightening thing Credence has ever heard. The idea of men getting married, of _him_ being able to marry a man, _this_ man, has his thoughts careening in too many different directions.

“No, no-- I’m not suggesting-- unless you want to, but-- this is a little too soon-- or, well, not really, not when it’s you-- but I doubt you want-- Merlin, I’m cocking this up,” Graves spits at last. He runs both hands over his face before looking at Credence. “I just mean that the way I feel about you is new for me, Credence. I want to protect you and show you the world and make you mine all at once.”

Graves licks his lips before saying slowly, “I’ve loved before, but never like this; not the way I love you, and that-- that’s absolutely terrifying. I’ve barely known you three months, and yet I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life. And to suddenly find that at almost forty, well. It’s scary.”

“You love me,” Credence breathes. It’s not quite a question. Somehow, he thinks he’s known for a while, even if he hadn’t known how to believe it.

“I love you,” Graves echoes.

“I love you, too,” Credence says, and the words still feel unfamiliar on his tongue, but oh so natural.

Credence wonders if Graves would be opposed if he tried to start something here in his MACUSA office, because oh, Credence wants to. He wants to sink to his knees and show Graves what he’s learned over the past weeks.

His desire must show on his face, because Graves is looking at him with dark, wanting eyes. He opens his mouth, but a knock on the door cuts off whatever he’s about to say. Credence glances at the door reluctantly, because _that’s_ exactly why this is a terrible idea.

Graves scowls and says, “Leave it.”

Another knock comes, more insistent this time. Graves closes his eyes as if praying for patience, and Credence has to stifle the urge to laugh.

“Enter,” Graves growls.

The door opens to reveal an older man, tall with broad shoulders and a cane. His hair is short-cut silver, and his eyes are unnervingly familiar, cold and sharp and so much like the eyes of the man he’d once known as Percival Graves.

Graves instantly straightens, hands balling into fists at his side. “Why are you here?”

“Because you turned away my elf, insolent child,” the man says, low and sneering.

Understanding sinks into Credence’s gut like a lead weight. He doesn't need to be told to know who this man is. This is the elder Mr. Graves. He finds himself both wanting to hide behind his lover and stand proud at his side.

“I didn’t turn away the elf,” Graves says, drawing to his full height. “I turned away the elf’s offer. I will not be summoned like a school child.”

“Then find it in yourself not to act like one!” the elder Mr. Graves hisses.

“How did you know I was here?” Graves asks.

“I once occupied the desk you now sit behind. Don’t assume I have lost all of my connections.”

Graves sneers. “Any of your ‘connections’ should have been wiped from this department. This is no longer the place you once worked. MACUSA doesn’t ignore no-maj pride killings anymore, Father.”

The elder Graves’s cold eyes turn to Credence, something speculative there. “I see the Selwyn girl did have a child after all. There’s no mistaking those features. I resigned myself to your preference for men long ago, but must you take a half-breed into your bed?”

Credence blanches, more at the fact that this man knows than the slight on his blood status.

“Who told you?” Graves asks, cold.

The older man laughs unkindly. “No one needed to tell me. ‘It is easier to hide two elephants under your arm than one pathic’, the Greeks say. So it is walking your young male lover through the halls of MACUSA. You could have at least refrained from parading your shame about. You might still have a chance at a decent marriage.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Graves says, anger visibly growing. “I am a grown man, and I don’t have to put up with you insulting my lover and my decisions anymore.”

The elder Mr. Graves sighs. “I had hoped to have this conversation over an amicable dinner, but I see now that that was always impossible.” He adjusts his grip on his cane. “I am dying.”

“I didn’t know spite was terminal.”

“Percival, listen,” the older man orders.

“I am listening, Father,” Graves says, scowling. “What do you expect? Tears, sorrow, a going away party?”

“I’ve come in contact with a debilitating curse that has left me with less than a year to live,” the older man says, ignoring his son. “As you are the least disgraceful child I have sired, you will inherit the estate.”

“You’re serious.” Graves’s words come out weak.

“I would say dead serious were I not above such puns.”

Silence falls heavy over the room. Credence can’t make out the expression on Graves’s face. It’s not sorrow, not quite.

“I’m sorry,” Graves says quietly.

“No you’re not,” his father says. “You’re relieved.”

Graves frowns at him, anger twisting his features once more. “Yeah, I am. Now I don’t have to worry about you ordering a hit on my ‘disgraceful’ lovers or killing your own daughter. So, yes, I am relieved.”

The elder Mr. Graves says nothing to this. Instead, he gives Credence a considering look. “At least if you insist only taking half-breed male lovers, this time you seem to have found one with prospects. Those are the Jonker’s robes, no?”

“They are,” Credence says. He makes himself stand up straight and look this man in the eyes.

“Well then, I expect the pair of you to set a date within the next ten months. I would like to see at least one child married off respectably before my death.” The elder Graves knocks his cane against the floor once before turning to leave. “I expect both of you over for dinner within the next month. Good day to you.”

Graves stares after him with an expression of mingled horror and confusion on his face.

Credence turns to him, eyes wide, utterly unable to form words.

“He’s finally lost it,” Graves says slowly.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me [on tumblr as oppisum](http://oppisum.tumblr.com).


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